Verdict
by In the House
Summary: The Pranks series continues as the trial of Patrick Chandler takes a very unexpected twist for House. Follows Three Cases. H/C, Jensen and Wilson friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Fox's characters from _House, M.D._ are not mine. Jensen, Abby, and Patterson are mine, as well as other supporting cast in the story whom you haven't seen on your TV screen.

Reminder: My series veers off from canon partway through the Greater Good. Anything after that is fair game to be changed. For instance, no "bad" Lucas in this world. He's the character he originally was introduced as.

Series: This is the next story in the Pranks series, and it follows Three Cases. It will be shorter (I think), but it's a power-packed little thing. While each story in the series contains its own arc, plot, and resolution, so it's not one long soap-opera trail of "to be continued," you will miss a few background things if you just start reading here. In particular, for Verdict, you probably want to read Medical Homicide first if you haven't yet to get the background on Patrick Chandler.

Enjoy Verdict. And buckle your seat belts. Short roller coasters can still give you a hair-raising ride.

(H/C)

"Would you like me to be there?" Patterson asked.

Cuddy hesitated, then shook her head emphatically. "No. I mean, thanks for the offer, but . . ." She trailed off at Patterson's pleasantly accusing gaze.

"You're doing it again."

Cuddy gritted her teeth. "This _isn't_ about me. Really, this particular time, it isn't. Greg doesn't need somebody else sticking around him; he's already got me, Wilson, and Jensen. He'll get claustrophobic in the waiting room with much more, especially somebody he doesn't really know well. I can't be focusing on how I feel about the trial. We all have to stay calm and supportive for him."

"So you admit that you do have your own feelings of stress about it?"

"_Yes_, damn it, but they don't matter. That's not the point." Cuddy trailed off, aware that she had walked straight into the trap once again that she had already visited several times during the month in which she'd been in therapy. Counseling was nothing at all like she'd anticipated going in. She had expected their discussions to focus on what had happened with the assassination attempt on the President and how it indirectly hurt her family. Instead, Patterson usually steered them into a mixed bag of the distant past with her upbringing and the not-so-distant past with things that had happened physically with House from the infarction on. The goal of all of it seemed to be to get Cuddy to admit that she had feelings and stresses herself that she had never faced in her hyperfocus on everybody else's opinions or needs.

Sessions were difficult, though Cuddy did feel a little bit better after them. But they were also intensely frustrating. Having finally grudgingly admitted that she had totally lost control and felt powerless in the assassination attempt, and that those feelings had impacted her whole family, she had come to therapy prepared to confess that and instead kept finding the playing field extended. The sin she was ready to confess wasn't even usually their topic. These sessions with Patterson were still new, still getting used to each other and getting background on the table, but Patterson's definition of background was turning out to be hugely different from Cuddy's. More and more, Cuddy was developing a sinking suspicion that she _did_ have a lot else to deal with, not just the events during the President's hospitalization.

Her respect for House had increased sharply, not that it had been low in the first place. Over two years. He had done this for over two years. She now realized why he didn't especially want to talk about the sessions with Jensen, and Friday nights after had become a total break for them, just a relaxing date, a time of mutual catching their breath. Her former curiosity as to details of what had happened earlier in his afternoon on Fridays was now gone. She had respected the limit on questions in the first place, but she had never fully understood it.

They _did_ talk about sessions some, no pressure either way, just what each of them wished to volunteer whenever it came up. But without exception, it never came up on Fridays. She felt guilty now for all those evenings when, even if silently, she had wished for more data from him.

"Stop feeling guilty," Patterson admonished her, breaking into her thoughts. "Dr. Cuddy, you have your own emotions and fears and needs. There is _nothing_ wrong with that. Yes, this will be tremendously stressful for your husband, but it also will be for you. Don't deny that. Remember, every time you open the closet door and just throw something in to get it out of sight, you bring the next avalanche that much closer. Sooner or later, things will fall back out on you and on those around you."

Cuddy sighed. "In this particular case, I really do have to think about him. We're going to have a hard enough time keeping him from going crazy waiting around before he testifies. He's the last witness for the prosecution, and Martin told us things would take much longer to get there than they did at the preliminary hearing. Not only that, but like I told you, the defense has asked to have the witnesses excluded from the courtroom until after they testify. Martin warned us that almost always happened at full trial, but _not_ knowing exactly what's going on in there will be worse than sitting in the court room hearing it. The rest of us have to . . ."

Patterson cut her off. "You need to support him, absolutely, but don't take the full responsibility for handling the situation on yourself. For one thing, he's an adult. He needs you as a _partner_, not as a baby-sitter. You've got a good point, though, about him having enough people with him in that little waiting room for witnesses. But if you would like me to be out in the courtroom those days, just to know I was there, I will. I won't encroach on him. But you would know somebody is there for _you_."

_Somebody is there for you_. An unfamiliar thought through much of her life. Now, there was House, of course, but to have a very recent acquaintance offer to be there for her was unexpected. Patterson's suggestion, a new offer today, had caught Cuddy by surprise. "I'm not sure. . . Martin warned us Greg will probably be on the stand more than one day, and we don't know which days yet. Depends on how the trial goes. It would snarl up your schedule, too; Jensen's booked three weeks off to avoid risking patient conflicts. Thanks, but no. But thanks for the offer. I wasn't expecting that."

Patterson accepted the refusal. "We won't plan on our sessions while the trial is running. That way, you don't have to worry about that in your schedule with everything else. But you _can_ call me in the evenings if you need to."

"I'd hate to disrupt your family . . ." Cuddy abruptly realized that she was probably putting her foot in her mouth. She didn't know much about Patterson personally, but she had surmised that she was a widow. She had no idea if there were children.

The therapist didn't seem hurt by the verbal misstep, though. "I live alone. My husband and my son both died years ago."

Sympathy crashed over Cuddy like a wave. "I'm sorry. I had no idea." She couldn't imagine losing a child, too.

"It's all right. I _do_ have extended family and friends, but I spend most weekday evenings just with books and with my three cats, and they won't mind a phone call."

Cuddy smiled, picturing the smallish woman sitting in a recliner packed in by feline beanbags of fur. "We've got a cat ourselves. Technically Rachel's, but that cat loves Greg more than any of us, I think. She's expressive, too, always lets you know how she feels. I'm not sure she approves of me the way she looks at me at times."

"Just because she knows you've got some faults? Cats are good letting us know that, but sometimes, that makes them a little wiser than we are. I'm sure she likes you anyway. She just isn't under the misconception that you're perfect."

Cuddy squirmed away from the implication that she herself could take lessons from Belle on that. "Our time's up." She stood up. "Really, thank you for the offer. I wasn't expecting that. If things get too tense, I might call you some night, but I hope it won't be that bad."

"Don't wait until the end of endurance," Patterson reminded her. She shook hands, her small hand as always surprising Cuddy with the strength in the fingers. "But I understand. Good luck with everything, Dr. Cuddy, and give Dr. House my best wishes. It's good to see people stand up against sociopaths like Chandler, and what he's doing is very brave knowing that his own past will be dragged into it and challenged." Patterson flinched in sympathy at the violation of House's privacy. The press would have a heyday with this trial, of course. The media was already circling, and the trial didn't even start until Tuesday, after the holiday on Monday, July 4th.

Cuddy nodded. "I'll give him your best. Thank you. I'll see you . . . well, I'll let you know. Although I'm sure you can follow things on the news, too. Just pick a channel."

"I'll be watching. I'll see you when it's over."

Cuddy left the room, feeling suddenly warmed by the fact that somebody would have been willing to be there for her. Even if it wouldn't work out, the thought still gave an unexpected lift to her spirits as she walked to the elevator. _When it's over_. Soon, the trial would be over, Patrick would be a permanent resident in prison (Martin honestly saw no way he could lose this case on the physical evidence and House's testimony), and life could get back to normal. Whatever normal was.

(H/C)

House's long, sensitive fingers wandered over the guitar, calling forth more a stream of consciousness flow than staying on one specific song, but even so, there was a pattern and sense to it, a definite if changing melody. Jensen was glad to hear that it kept moving forward, even if with occasional dissonances and tensions. "I've got three weeks off," he reminded House as their session wound down. "I'm taking advantage of it to do some shorter things with my family, but as long as you give me three or four hours of notice, I'll be there when you testify."

House nodded. "Martin said he'd be able to call it roughly several hours in advance. At least that way, I don't have to spend a week in the waiting room in the court house." He shuddered at the thought, the music rippling through a series of rapids. "Not that I'm likely to get much work done, but I can't imagine just sitting there waiting." He strummed another few bars of wandering melody. "You sure your family doesn't mind this? Doesn't seem like much of a vacation."

"They don't mind at all. They know what's going on, and they send you their best wishes."

"What about sending me fudge?" House asked, perking up suddenly even through the tension.

Jensen laughed. "Cathy already suggested it. We are having a 3-day camping trip this weekend up into the Adirondacks with Mark and his kids. That will be a total break with no distractions. It's tradition, actually; we do that somewhere around every 4th."

"Just be sure to take a can of Off or something."

"No danger of forgetting it, believe me. Mark's never going to forget that. He's still not quite up to full speed with running and really being active again; we'll probably spend more time just talking around the campfire. Everybody looks forward to this each year, though. I'm glad we didn't have to postpone it."

House glanced at Jensen's right arm. "Do you ever remember what happened to you when you're out camping?"

"Every single time," Jensen confirmed. "By now, it's usually more just a mental caution. I don't dwell on it. But yes, sitting next to a fire, looking at the flames, it always takes me a minute to get past almost _feeling_ it again, and Mark always remembers it, too. I guarantee, _nobody_ on our family camping trips ever runs and plays close to the fire."

House looked down at the guitar, his thoughts unerringly focusing back on the looming trial. "You're _ready_ for this, Dr. House," Jensen assured him. "A lot more ready than last fall. We've had hours of practice at cross examination, the reconditioning is working really well for you, and if some underhanded trick we haven't anticipated does come up with the defense, you know what to do."

House nodded. "Tell the judge. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, do not try to fight through it myself." That point had been driven home to him by the psychiatrist numerous times in the months since the evidentiary hearing.

"Exactly. You are ready for this. Not that it won't be difficult, but whatever might come up while you're on the stand, you are prepared to deal with it."

Jensen was wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Yes, a cliffhanger on just the first chapter. :) Verdict has several zinger lines on the way through. However, as said, it isn't a long story (I think, though mental pages always seem shorter than actual ones), and it also moves quickly. You will get that first one answered in, I believe, just two more chapters, as we land very quickly in court. Updates might not be as quick as usual for me; it's a busy musical season now through Easter. But the story itself moves right along. Thanks so much for all the reviews; I'm glad people are still interested in this universe. Enjoy chapter 2, and you will have action very shortly, I promise.

(H/C)

The back yard at the House house was full of activity, most of it named Rachel. She zoomed around the yard like a race car around a track, including the occasional spin-out, only pausing to catch her breath before charging off again. "Look, Dada!"

House and Sandra were in chairs on the back porch while Wilson manned the grill and Cuddy kept up a steady trek back inside for things that might be needed that had been forgotten. She was trying very hard - all of them were, actually - to keep the illusion in front of House of any old routine 4th of July barbecue among friends, pretending the shadow of the trial starting tomorrow did not exist. House was glad to play along, even while part of his mind told him such avoidance was pathetic. Just now, he was sitting down with a cool drink in one hand and Abby in his lap, but nobody looking at him would have considered him relaxed. Abby was obviously reading his mood and had been glued to him today.

"Look!" Rachel galloped another circuit of the yard, her voice chasing her. "Dada, I run!"

"I know," he called out. "I'm watching you, Rachel."

Abby shook her head briskly. "Noisy," she dismissed in one succinct comment.

All of the adults cracked up. "That she is," Sandra agreed. She looked down at the baby in her arms, sleeping soundly in spite of the commotion. Daniel had been discharged from the hospital a week ago, and it still seemed unreal somehow to be holding him at a barbecue, to be doing something so normal rather than visiting him in the hospital. She looked over at Abby, who had had a much longer and more difficult NICU course. "Did it seem unreal to you guys at first when she came home?"

House nodded, one arm tightening around his younger daughter, as Cuddy spoke for both of them. "Yes. Worrying that she might break. Also about immunities, and whether she would have permanent issues or not, mental or physical. We were always watching for any progress and questioning anything behind schedule."

Sandra looked back at her son. "We were lucky there." Daniel had had an isolated though serious genetic defect requiring surgical repair, but immunologically and developmentally, he was a far different case from Abby.

"Does he sleep pretty well?" Cuddy asked. Rachel certainly didn't seem to be bothering him any.

"Yes, so far, but when he wants something, he wants it _now_."

"He's just saving up strength with the sleeping, getting your guard down," House predicted. "He'll be giving Rachel a run for her money before long."

Wilson grinned, watching Rachel and picturing his own son running circles, healthy and strong. Ready for another reluctant break, Rachel ran toward the back porch.

House's strained lighthearted mood shattered at her impetuous approach. "Rachel, _walk!_" he said sharply, visions of Jensen's accident suddenly magnified in his mind. Already on edge in general, he easily jumped tracks to the new worry. Puzzled at the uncharacteristically sharp tone from him, she slowed down. "You don't _ever_ run close to the grill. Understand? Never. No matter what. If you tripped right there, you could get hurt."

Rachel walked over to him. "Okay," she said, but her tone was enough indication that she didn't understand.

"I mean it," he insisted. "You could get hurt badly. You _do not _do that." He could almost see it, her small body hurtling into the grill, charcoal flying, him unable to move quickly enough to save her.

Cuddy put a hand on his shoulder and held it there, her gentle pressure calming him a little, and Abby reached up silently to copy the gesture. "He's right, Rachel. You never run once you get close to the grill." Her more-even tone firmly backed up his message, though. Rachel looked from one to the other of her parents, then, as usual when she felt she was missing something, changed the subject. She looked at House's lap, finding her sister already in possession. Abby shot her a self-satisfied look, and Rachel next turned to Wilson, flipping burgers.

"Wilson, see me run?"

"Kind of hard not to," he said. He picked her up with his free hand. "Yes, I saw you run. They're right, though. Look at these burgers. If you tripped and fell into the grill, you'd have grill marks burned across you, just like these." Rachel looked impressed at the visual. House flinched, even imagining the sizzle, and Cuddy spoke up firmly.

"Enough, Wilson. She gets the point."

"Just trying to . . ." He broke off at sharp looks from both Cuddy and Sandra and realized, too late, that painting vivid disaster scenarios in front of House at the moment wasn't the best approach.

Rachel reverted to her former topic, annoyed at all the overtones she sensed she was missing. "Wilson, Dada used to run."

"I know," he said softly with a shadow across his voice.

"You see the movie, too?"

It was Wilson's turn to be confused. "What movie?"

House sighed. "I showed Rachel some old pictures and a movie of a lacrosse game a few weeks ago. She wanted to be like me, and the piano wasn't going as well as she'd like. I really think her talents are different."

Wilson discarded about three comments there and finally just shut his mouth for once without saying anything. House looked from Rachel to Abby, remembering the last few weeks. The glimpse into his past had worked spectacularly well with Rachel, and while she still wanted brief sessions with the piano, a few minutes was enough for her, and her frustration with lack of progress was less. She spent far more time lately running circles and demanding that he watch her do so. Abby, on the other hand, continued to do spectacularly in her early piano lessons, and Cuddy and House carefully continued to keep the girls apart when one was playing. To his relief, neither of his daughters seemed to hold his current disabilities against him.

"Isn't it about time to eat?" Sandra suggested, gently changing the subject.

"Eat!" Rachel approved.

"Just about time," Wilson agreed. The next few minutes were taken up with getting paper plates fixed and also getting a bottle for Daniel, who woke up and demanded attention, inciting another "noisy" from Abby. Finally, the group was relatively settled around the patio table. Conversation during lunch continued to focus on anything other than the trial, but at the end of the meal, Wilson picked up his glass.

"I'd like to propose a toast," he announced, looking with a brief pang at his glass of lemonade. Nothing alcoholic, not even a beer with a meal, period. He and Jensen had agreed that total abstinence was the course for him, but Wilson still missed it at times. At the moment, the company of friends was enough, but making a toast with lemonade just seemed incomplete somehow. Everybody else picked up their glasses and waited expectantly, though. Actually, nobody else was imbibing at this barbecue, either, giving it up on his behalf. Wilson paused for dramatic effect, then continued. "I've been thinking about this day and what it symbolizes."

House groaned. "Seriously? You're risking getting boring, Wilson."

"Freedom," Wilson continued pointedly, drowning him out, "and all that means in our lives. And so, as I said, I'd like to propose a toast." He paused briefly again but not long enough to give time for another Housian cynical remark. "To prison! Rightful home of Patrick and those like him, and may they all have a very long and very unhealthy life there."

House was caught off guard for a moment, then suddenly smiled, reaching out with his glass. Everybody else had waited for him to react first, but they now followed suit, and there was a general murmur around the table. "To prison!"

Wilson let out an internal sigh that that calculated shot had worked to diffuse a little bit of his friend's tension. Sandra gave him a smile, and suddenly, he didn't mind the lemonade as much anymore. The afternoon proceeded without flags or fireworks, but the company of friends was itself some distraction, and at the end of the day, House realized with surprise that this particular year, it had been a holiday that he wouldn't mind repeating next year. Not just the toast to prison, although he wouldn't mind repeating that annually, but the two families sharing the day together. A new tradition.

(H/C)

The week beyond, as holiday-shortened weeks tend to do, was stretched out to an impossible length, seeming far longer than four days. Everybody seemed to be walking on eggshells. Cuddy kept one eye on the morning papers but both eyes on her husband. Abby and Rachel knew something was wrong, could feel the tension, but didn't understand why, of course, though they did their best to show sympathy for whatever was bothering him, as did Belle. House went to PPTH but couldn't settle to cases or research, and the two cases that came up he solved almost immediately without even spinning it out to play with and challenge the team. Everybody was far too understanding of his distraction for his comfort, too, though nobody actually mentioned the reason. He went through the motions at work each day, came home to spend time with his family and then drug himself past all chance of nightmares each night, conducted mental cross-examination on himself as practice in spite of Jensen's advice not to, and basically waited on pins and needles through the whole eternal week and following eternal weekend for the phone to ring.

Early Monday afternoon, it rang.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. This chapter was getting longer than I thought mentally, but I might well get the other part of it (evening at House's/morning until call to the stand) written Saturday. Work has been low all week, so I'm writing in work breaks while waiting for more, and my Saturday shift should be lower still. We'll get House into court pretty quickly. More details on the defense's strategy and what's happened behind the scenes since Medical Homicide will be filled in along the way.

(H/C)

House snatched up his cell phone, looking at caller ID, but he then let it ring again before he slowly hit the button. "House."

"I'm about to call Dr. Cranston," Martin reported, his voice even and reassuring but soft, obviously trying to keep the conversation out of surrounding eager ears. "You're up after him."

House looked at his watch. Having waited all week for this, he suddenly wanted to put it off longer. "This afternoon?" It was already 1:15. Jensen would have to move quickly.

"No," Martin said. "Just giving you a heads-up. I don't want to start with you late in a day, bad jury strategy. We don't want to interrupt your testimony that soon into it if we can help it. Court is just finishing lunch break now, and I'll make sure Cranston is on the stand all afternoon. I doubt the defense will get done with him that fast anyway, but if they do, I'll go on redirect until it's late enough the judge will call it a day. Really, I figure cross will keep him until tomorrow morning, and first I'm going to be pretty thorough on direct to try to pull their teeth in advance. Less of a challenge on the facts for you that way. I'd say definitely tomorrow with you and my own estimate is mid morning. Be here first thing, though. Sorry about sticking you in the waiting room, but we don't have a choice tomorrow. Whenever he finishes, there can't be a delay in finding you."

House took a deep breath. Tomorrow. And unlike Abby's favorite song from Annie, this was really _was_ tomorrow and would not be always a day away. "Okay," he said, resolute even while trembling a little bit inside. "I'll be there in the morning."

"I'll see you then before court starts. We're doing well, Dr. House. We're going to win this. The only place they've really scored so far is getting Ann Bellinger shaken up, and that didn't gain the defense any points with the jury."

"Is the defense still pulling punches?" House had had two updates during the last week from Martin, so he had a rough idea of how the trial was going. After a day and a half of jury selection, it had been moving surprisingly efficiently through the material evidence with the defense not really going after any of the witnesses, which went against Patrick's new lawyer's reputation as an absolute terrier on cross.

"So far. He was pushing our psychiatrist some, but not too bad. Not that he was going to rock that testimony, and he has his own expert to say exactly the opposite. That's just whose expert the jury decides to believe. I really think the defense is staking everything on cross with you." Martin heard House's silence. "This _won't_ be like the hearing, though. Stevenson is relentless and ruthless, but he goes for people verbally. Of course, _if_ some underhanded trick does come up . . ."

"I know, I know," House cut him off peevishly. "Tell the judge. I've heard that a hundred times over the last few months."

The background noise kicked up a little. "I've got to go; court will be starting again soon, and I need to turn off my cell phone. See you tomorrow morning, Dr. House. Goodbye."

The line went dead, and House sat at his desk looking blankly at the journal he had been reading. The feeling of the eyes boring into his back finally jolted him out of reverie, and he turned to see Kutner standing in the doorway to the conference room. "Aren't you supposed to be doing clinic duty? I don't have it anymore, but you guys still do."

"I was just finishing up lunch break. Came up to check. . . to get a cup of coffee."

"You don't _need_ to check on me. I'm not a kid you're babysitting," House snapped.

Kutner ignored the tone and walked over to the desk, holding out a mug, and House realized for the first time that his fellow had one in each hand. "Want some?"

House took the coffee and gulped down a few swallows. It was hot, but it thawed the lump in his stomach a little. "Was that the prosecutor?" Kutner asked.

House considered dodging, but it suddenly wasn't worth the effort. Everybody in the hospital would know soon enough anyway. "Yeah. I'm up tomorrow."

Kutner fished in his pocket and pulled out his lucky rabbit's foot. "Here. Take it with you."

"Thought you couldn't sleep without it."

Kutner grinned at him. "I'll manage. I'll just put on a really bad movie, and it will send me right off. Something like Plan Nine from Outer Space. Have you seen that one?"

"No, and I'm afraid to ask. What happened to Plans One through Eight?"

"The aliens didn't like those. It really is awful. And the continuity errors are crazy. Like there's one set of furniture that appears three times: In the house on earth, in DC, _and_ on the spaceship. Then there's . . ."

House sighed. "Kutner, if I take the damn rabbit's foot, will you shut up? I have a few phone calls to make."

Kutner dropped distraction efforts immediately. "Right. Well, I'll get back to the clinic then." He held out the rabbit's foot until House took it. "Good luck, House." He left the office, and House absentmindedly pocketed the rabbit's foot and took another gulp of coffee. He then hit speed dial 1.

"Greg? Hang on a minute." He heard the click of her heels as she moved away from the obvious nurse's station she had been in to some more isolated corner. "Is this it?"

"Yep. I'm the next contestant to come on down. He's calling Cranston now. He said he'd stall out this afternoon if they get done with him before quitting time, though. So we're on for tomorrow, either first thing in the morning or mid morning at least."

"Okay. Have you called Jensen?"

"Not yet. I . . . wanted to tell you first." He heard her smile. "Well, actually, Kutner found out first, but that wasn't my idea. He butted in the informational line."

"Do you want to go home? Or stay here for the rest of the day? Whatever is easier, Greg."

"All those years I dreamed of you asking me a question like that." The mocking note fell away. "Stay the rest of the afternoon, I guess. If the schedule got too far off usual, the girls would wonder. They're already wondering. Not that I'm getting much done here, either, but . . ."

"The piano is in the auditorium," she suggested. "No classes in there this afternoon."

He smiled, remembering a few moments with it over the years. "Maybe I'll do that. Or we could really get distracted if you like."

"Not in the middle of the hospital in the middle of the day," she objected, knowing that he had just made the suggestion to get a rise out of her. "Want some company?"

"Maybe. I need to call Jensen, and then I'd better tell Wilson. If he hears it on the grapevine first, he'd never forgive me. I'll probably go down to the auditorium after that, though."

"I'll head that way in about 45 minutes. How does that sound?"

She was giving him space to himself yet not too much space. He relaxed a little into the warm feeling, still a novelty, of having people who genuinely cared around him. "See you then. I love you, Lisa."

"I love you, too. See you in a little bit."

He hit end and then dialed Jensen's cell phone. The psychiatrist picked it up on the second ring. "Hello. Did you hear from court?" Jensen already knew the answer. He and House had talked a few times during the last week and weekend but never in the middle of the day, House respecting Jensen's vacation activities with his family and Jensen respecting House's illusion of work.

"Yeah. I'm on for tomorrow, probably pretty soon in the morning. There's just Cranston left before me." House felt his mind wander to Dr. Cranston's testimony. Based on indications from the hearing and in paperwork since then, Martin thought that the defense was indeed going to challenge the accuracy of House's picture of events with John. House was, after all, the only surviving witness, and nobody else had suspected in all those years. John had an honorable military record. An argument could be made that House was either lying for attention's sake or delusional. Thus, in the months between the hearing and the trial, Martin had asked House to go ahead and get a full body scan, and they had had a well-respected medical expert, one with no prior connection to House's circles but very familiar with testifying, interpret the results. House, of course, had seen the results himself, as had Cuddy, as no doubt had Wilson without invitation. House had had nightmares that night. There were a few things on there that he didn't even remember. Overall, of course, there was no question; if Martin had wanted hard physical evidence of House's past for court, he now had it.

Cranston was probably on the stand right now, going into that scan injury by injury in professional detail. House pictured the jury listening intently, the no-doubt capacity crowd soaking it up, the media recording it to broadcast the story across the nightly news tonight. He shivered.

"Dr. House?"

House jumped at Jensen's voice, and his leg yelped at him. "I'm here. Just thinking."

"Don't think too much, okay? I'll head on down to Princeton tonight. Should be able to get on the road before long. I was already packed."

The thought of the psychiatrist coming steadied him. A support system. He had Jensen now, and even better, he had Cuddy. He relaxed a little. "Okay. Motel House will leave the light on for you," he quipped. It was, of course, full summer, and Jensen would get here long before dark.

"See you then." Jensen's low voice dropped lower. "Cathy wanted to talk to you for a minute. You don't have to. I'm a little way across the park from them, so she isn't standing right here listening at the moment."

House considered. Ridiculous to get another warm, fuzzy reassurance. On the other hand, he hated to disappoint the kid. He was already stealing her father away from part of their vacation. "Okay. Not for long, though."

"I already told her that. But thank you. It will really mean a lot to her. She'd be coming with me if she could figure out any way to sneak into the car when my back was turned." Jensen started walking; House could hear his footfalls.

"Have you had a good vacation?" House asked suddenly.

"Yes, I have. Great camping trip over the 4th, and we've had several shorter fun things, too. It's been a nice break, and it really has been a vacation to this point." Jensen stopped. "Okay, Cathy, here he is. Just for a minute, though. He's still at work, and he's busy."

A shuffle of phone exchange, and then her voice came on the line. "Hi, Dr. House!"

House grinned at her enthusiasm, even with her trying to tone it down. Jensen's daughter so much reminded him of an older Rachel. There were differences, of course, but the overall joie de vivre was the same. "Hi. How's the piano coming?"

"It's SO much better now, once you convinced Mom and Dad that my teacher was an idiot. Course, I still can't play like you, but it's fun now, at least, and I feel like I'm learning something instead of just fighting it. You ought to hear me sometime." She paused, and House could almost see the Rachel-ish plotting expression settle across her face. "You know, you COULD hear me for yourself if you'd just tell Dad that it would help to have me come down there for the trial."

"Cathy!" Jensen and Melissa were a duet protest heard in the background.

"That would be a distraction for you, too. And . . . oops. Well, anyway, good luck, Dr. House." Her voice faded as the phone was obviously wrested from her grasp.

"I apologize," Jensen said. "That was _not_ what she said she wanted to tell you." That had a firm "and we'll cover that point later" parental emphasis on it for Cathy's ears. "I'll be down there this evening, should get to Princeton in time to eat with you."

"I'll tell Cuddy. What was Cathy like when she was 2 1/2?" House asked, his tone amused.

"A total whirlwind."

"She reminds me of Rachel." Older, of course. Cathy would be . . .let's see, she'd be 9 now. She'd turn 10 before long, he thought. He ought to ask Jensen when her birthday was. Some other time. "Well, you need to hit the road, and I need to talk to Wilson."

"I'll see you tonight. Don't spend too much time alone before then."

"I won't. Lisa already checked in on that. Don't forget the fudge!" House added, and Jensen was chuckling as he hung up.

House tucked his cell phone back in his pocket and stood up, deciding he'd had enough of phone calls for the moment. He would tell Wilson in person. There was an internal smile alongside the tension just now, though. He hoped Cathy wouldn't come under too much fire from her parents for sneakily taking advantage of a golden opportunity when it had presented itself to her.

House limped down the hall to Oncology, tapped on Wilson's door, and entered without waiting for a summons. He stopped in surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought this was your office. Moving to a different one?"

Wilson, clearly in the process of taking down his framed movie posters from the wall, looked back over his shoulder while keeping a careful grip on Vertigo. "Very funny, House. I have the right to change my decor once in a while." He carefully propped Vertigo against the wall, then reached over to his desk and picked up a framed picture. House limped forward to inspect it more closely. It was a picture from the barbecue last weekend of Wilson, Sandra, and Daniel, one of those casually posed shots that still gets everyone at just the right moment. "Cuddy emailed me the pictures she got of us, and I really liked this one," Wilson explained. "So I had it blown up." He hung it in Vertigo's spot and stood back, looking at the effect. He smiled, but there was a wistful look at the poster against the wall, too. It had been there for so long.

"Think you'll get a few points with Sandra for that?"

"I'm _proud_ of my son, House. People like displaying family pictures; most people have them in their offices."

"And while that's true, you also think you might get a few points with Sandra for that."

Wilson dropped the front. "Well, it can't hurt. I think I'm making progress, but this is a long, slow climb back to convincing her I'm a steady, responsible father ready to embrace all of my obligations."

"So what are you going to do with the poster? Take it home and put it up in your place? She'll love that."

"I don't know. Hadn't worked it out that far."

"Well, I'll leave you to redecorating." House turned and opened the office door. "Oh, by the way, I'm being called in court tomorrow morning." He closed the door behind him right as he finished the words. Predictably, it was jerked open again before he had limped even three steps away.

"So this is it?" Wilson asked. "Does Jensen know yet?"

House turned back and glanced around the hall, but it was empty at the moment. "Yeah, I called him a few minutes ago. He has the drive, you know. He's coming on down tonight."

"Good. I'll meet you at the courthouse in the morning. Sandra isn't coming, but I'm sure she'll be thinking of you."

"I know, she already told me. Don't be late yourself, though. If I have to be stuck in a little room waiting, at least I might as well be there with people who aren't boring." House punched the down button on the elevator with his cane. He could almost feel the warmth of Wilson being needed behind him.

"Where are you going now?" the oncologist asked.

"Down to play the piano in the auditorium for a while. Cuddy's meeting me there." The elevator opened, and House stepped in.

"I'll call Sandra and tell her," Wilson stated. "This isn't going to be like last time, House. You're ready. They haven't got a chance."

"Yeah, I know. I've had the pep talk already." House removed his hand from holding the door open. "Make sure you aren't late, Wilson."

"I won't be. To prison!"

The door closed between them. "To prison," House stated to the blank wall. Patrick's cell in prison probably wouldn't be much bigger than this elevator. House thought of the usual fate of child abusers in prison, and he straightened up a fraction. Everyone was right. This _wasn't_ going to be like last time; even aside from the different lawyer, nobody would ever try a stunt like that carpet glue on the stand again after that had been caught. It would just be verbal wrestling, and House was good at that. Think of Patrick, not of John. And even when he did think of John, remember that John was dead and in hell. The past was over.

The auditorium was empty, and he slid onto the piano bench, his hands gratefully finding the keyboard. Music always steadied him, saying what he himself couldn't. He let his hands wander over the keys, suddenly thinking of that other Patrick, the musical genius who had finished House's composition. He wondered how he was doing. The melody came again to his fingers. So much had happened since that lonely, desperate time. Help with his own pain, the huge mental wounds he had been denying and even somewhat with the physical pain in his leg. That would never go away, but the multidrug regimen he was on now, including prn stronger things for flareups with no judgment attached, worked better than his former method of extra Vicodin and whiskey. He had a family. He wasn't alone, not today, not tomorrow.

Tomorrow. He would be on the stand tomorrow.

He didn't hear Cuddy enter, but he felt her warm hands on his shoulders suddenly. "Are you holding up okay, Greg?"

"Yeah," he replied, and it wasn't entirely a lie or an evasion.

She sat down on the piano bench next to him, her presence warm and comforting, and listened with him to the music.


	4. Chapter 4

Jensen arrived a nose ahead of House and Cuddy, just getting out of his car in the driveway as they turned into the street. Cuddy pulled the car up alongside his, and House got out, feeling the psychiatrist's eyes on him, sizing him up this evening. Better get used to it; the whole world would be watching tomorrow. "You sure Cathy isn't in the trunk?" House asked, trying to break the mood.

Jensen smiled. "She definitely isn't. She was still protesting when I left that life's unfair."

"Have to admit she has a point there."

"Again, I'm sorry about her trying to pin you down." Jensen used the word without emphasis, just in conversation, but his eyes were measuring. More and more, it was gradually becoming just a word with House, one that had special meaning with Cuddy, but in general conversation, it no longer automatically took his mind back to the stairs. House didn't flinch now, even though he was obviously tense. He's ready for this, Jensen thought to himself again. Unlike at the hearing, House now had had months of specific reconditioning and preparation for the trial, both Jensen and Martin working with him. It helped that they knew exactly what the defense had from Blythe's therapy notes and thus could focus only on the relevant parts of House's past. He still would have a hard time on the stand, but he was as prepared for this as he possibly could be. "Cathy had tried every other strategy on us," Jensen continued, "but it never occurred to me she'd try that one."

House shrugged. "I was the one who set up the opportunity for her; she just took the opening. Don't go too hard on the kid."

"She had that plotted in advance," Jensen disagreed. "She had to know you'd ask her about the music."

Cuddy had gone on up the walk to the front door, leaving the two men talking back by Jensen's car, but as she opened the door, Rachel's welcoming shriek was heard at a decibel level that easily carried to the driveway. "Mama! Where's Dada?"

House turned. "We'll have to talk about court later. I think I'm being paged."

Jensen took his suitcase out of the car and fell into place behind him. "We don't need to talk about court later. Nothing left to do tonight; an evening with the kids sounds perfect."

Cuddy was holding Rachel back, but House was assaulted as soon as he walked in the door. "Dada!" The toddler attached herself to his leg, carefully picking the left one.

House set his balance and then picked her up. "Hey, kid. Did you miss me today?"

"That's an understatement. She was . . ." Marina broke off, looking at Jensen coming in the door behind House. "You'll testify tomorrow?"

House nodded. Rachel looked from her father back to Marina, not understanding the tension that had been here all week and was crackling even louder now. Going for her usual method of changing the subject when she didn't understand it, she took the word that she knew out of Marina's comment and ran with it. "Tomorrow, tomorrow. . ."

"NO!" Abby had been quiet to this point, knowing that her faster sister would beat her to welcoming her father and that he couldn't hold both of them at once. But that was one of her favorite songs, and Rachel's singing, like much of the rest of her, was all enthusiasm and not much practice or skill. "No sing!"

"Shut up!" Rachel snapped.

Cuddy sighed and stepped in smoothly, picking up her younger daughter. "Rachel, you don't tell your sister to shut up, and Abby, there's nothing wrong with her singing." Abby looked at her mother with a perfect _are you serious?_ expression.

House snickered and gave Rachel a hug as he looked back at Jensen to get his reaction. The psychiatrist was struggling to maintain a straight face himself.

"Ah, the joys of homecoming," House commented.

"Girls, be nice," Marina accosted them both. She picked up her purse. "Now, I will be here in the morning early, and I'll bring the lucky cereal."

House rolled his eyes. "Ah yes, we couldn't possibly get through tomorrow without the lucky cereal."

Marina ignored him, a skill she'd perfected long ago. She gave Abby and then Rachel a hug. "Good night, girls. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night," Rachel replied, and Abby echoed, "Night."

The door closed behind Marina, and Rachel abruptly spotted Belle and wiggled until House put her down. "Belle! Kitty, kitty. Come say hi." She charged after the white cat, who dodged down the hall with Rachel in vigorous pursuit.

Jensen smiled. "I can see the resemblance to Cathy in a few ways, definitely."

House took advantage of the opportunity with Rachel down the hall to limp over and take Abby from Cuddy. "Abby," he said, his voice soft but serious. "Don't say anything when Rachel starts to sing, okay? It's not nice. Besides, she won't stay with it long. Get her annoyed at you, and you'll just make it last longer." Abby considered this with an expression far older than her 20 months and then smiled, nodding.

Cuddy watched. Abby was downright frightening sometimes, she thought. They definitely would have their hands full raising these two very different girls. "They actually get along well most of the time," she said to Jensen, lest he think disagreements erupted nightly. "They're just both on edge at the moment."

"You don't have to apologize for sibling spats to a psychiatrist," he pointed out. "Everybody has them now and then."

Rachel at that point trotted back down the hall. "Mama, need to go potty."

"Okay." Cuddy took Rachel's hand and headed back for the bathroom.

As soon as he heard the door shut, House limped over to the baby grand and sat down, appreciating as he did each time Cuddy's therapeutic piano bench cushion. "Jensen, I want you to see this." The psychiatrist walked over to stand beside the piano bench, and House firmly depressed the soft pedal and settled his daughter on his good leg. "Abby, play Tomorrow for me," he requested. "_Softly_."

Abby's eyes brightened, and she studied the keyboard, then unerringly picked out the starting note and launched into the piece. She was only playing one note at a time, but the melody was faultless. She also, Jensen noted, even had a concept of playing it softly, and there was already an impression of phrasing even with her simple technique. The absolute pride on House's face was obvious. After she finished, he pulled her into a tight hug. "Thank you," he said softly.

Abby cheerfully returned the hug, and House looked up at Jensen over her head.

"Wow. _How _old is she?"

"20 months. She's got it. Her hands need to grow to catch up with the mind, but it's there." He addressed her directly. "You're great at this. Just like Rachel is great at running." More, actually, but he and Cuddy were trying hard to hammer in the different talents for different people lesson.

Abby grinned ear to ear, then eagerly turned back to the piano. "Nope." House caught her hands as she reached for it again. "Not tonight, Abby. I don't want to do lessons tonight." He heard the bathroom door open.

Abby pulled back obediently, but the disappointment on her face was obvious. Rachel ran down the hall. "Play, Dada!" she requested, spotting him sitting at the piano.

Abby immediately perked back up. "Peas."

House looked at Cuddy. "You go ahead and play for them while I fix dinner, Greg," she approved. Actually, she thought it was a great idea. Perfect distraction for him tonight. He passed off Abby to Jensen, freeing up his hands. Jensen sat down on the couch, holding Abby, and Rachel climbed up next to them.

House didn't ask for requests tonight. He instead launched into Rachmaninoff's famous Prelude in C-Sharp Minor, all the wide range of emotions and musical conflicts pouring through his fingers, working them down into order and harmony. His audience of three sat spellbound, and Cuddy listened from the kitchen, amazed anew at how much he could put into music. She was glad he had had that outlet through life, at least one unimpeded channel of self expression that John House had never crushed.

House moved on to Bach's Toccata and Fugue when he finished the prelude. The free concert lasted until the meal was ready, and Cathy's fudge was handed around for dessert. Afterward, they watched a Disney movie all together, the evening proceeding peacefully. It was bedtime by then, and the girls were too sleepy to protest much. After tucking them in, House wandered restlessly back down the hall to the living room and sat down at the piano again, touching the instrument but not playing it.

"We don't need to talk about the trial tonight," Jensen repeated. "I brought the chess set if you want to play." Tonight, unlike back in the frantic push before the hearing, he gave House a vote on it.

House stared at his hands. "I keep trying to figure out what we haven't done."

"Nothing," Jensen assured him. "You are _ready_ for this, Dr. House. Every point they can make, we can counter. We even have a contingency plan for some underhanded stunt like the carpet glue we haven't anticipated. We don't need to run over more cross examination tonight; you've already had plenty of hours of it. Play the piano instead. Or chess if you like. But forget the trial. This is too late for more preparation anyway, and you don't need more."

House drummed his fingers on the keyboard for a minute, though doing it so delicately that he did not disturb the piano. He couldn't himself think of anything forgotten. They had dissected Blythe's therapy notes with a fine-toothed comb, working specifically on those points the defense knew. But it was so hard to resist the impulse for a last-minute cram session. Cuddy had come into the living room by now and walked over close to House. "Dr. Jensen, have you ever played video games?" she suggested tentatively. "He's been trying to teach me, but I'm not much good at it."

"Not much, but I'm always willing to learn something new," the psychiatrist replied.

House gave a final silent drum on the keyboard and then stood up to go get the game controllers. By the time they went to bed an hour or so later, the topic of the trial, though still hovering in the room, hadn't been mentioned again.

(H/C)

Tuesday morning ran deceptively smoothly up until the time court started, from Cuddy's playful method of waking up House to Marina's lucky cereal. Wilson met the other three at the courthouse, and Martin was waiting for them. He took them to the waiting room for witnesses, which was empty at the moment, no defense witnesses waiting for the start of their case. Both sides knew full well that House would take more than a day. Martin closed the door behind them and faced House.

"Okay. The defense didn't finish on Cranston last night, so we've got a little bit of wrap-up there, but his testimony was very firm, totally unshakable. Stevenson still wasn't digging in, which isn't like him, but I'm sure he'll wake up when they get to you. Just remember, don't let him rattle you. The courtroom is very crowded; they actually have an overflow with closed-circuit again, and even so, people will be turned away. I'll save seats for the others in the rows for witnesses who have already testified, so they'll be right up front. Don't look directly at the jury. Just focus on me and Dr. Cuddy. If you need a break, ask for one, and if the defense tries anything illegal, call them on it immediately. You're going to do fine, Dr. House. Remember, everybody is on your side except for Chandler and his lawyer. Even the media."

House took a deep breath. He was wearing the tie that Jensen had drawn Ghostbusters symbols on, but it still felt tight. At least it didn't feel tightening. "Sure. Nothing to it."

Martin gave him a sympathetic look. "Really, you're going to be a great witness. Trust me; I've dealt with plenty of people I dreaded calling to the stand. You aren't one of them." He looked at his watch. "I need to head to the courtroom. An official will be outside the door of this room; nobody will bother you. Hopefully it won't be too long." He knew House well enough now not to offer to shake hands, but the warm respect was in his eyes. "Thank you again for doing this, Dr. House." He left the room.

House sat down in one of the chairs. "I just hope this is the _last_ time I have to do this. Hope that jury isn't made up of idiots. If they don't get the verdict right this time, the next state will come to bat."

"They'll get it," Wilson assured him. "Martin knows what he's doing, and they don't have a leg to stand on. Even with everything that happened with the lawyer."

Patrick's lawyer from the hearing, of course, had been disqualified from the case and facing his own charges after the stunt with the carpet glue, but Bartle had most inconveniently or conveniently, depending on which side you looked at it from, died of a heart attack barely a week after the hearing in November. No doubt stress had been a contributing factor. That eliminated Bartle as a witness to cut a deal testifying against Patrick, though his initial statement blaming Patrick had been taken. Patrick's new defense lawyer had been busy in the intervening months, according to the paperwork which had to be shared with Martin during discovery. Each side knew the other's witnesses and evidence before the trial and had the opportunity to find their own counter witnesses, as for instance with the psychiatrists for each side.

The defense was continuing with the insanity claim, going for multiple personalities, and was blaming what had happened at the hearing fully on Bartle, no longer alive to protest otherwise. They had dug into his background in a way the bar association unfortunately never had while he was practicing, and the research had turned up several other misdeeds ranging from merely unethical to unquestionably illegal. It was enough to make Bartle's heart attack very understandable as the man had faced impending full investigation into his practice over the years, with other charges no doubt following. The defense had compiled very convincing evidence of Bartle as an attorney who had shown repeatedly he would stoop to any means to win a case and would have wanted even more so to win this high-profile one. Martin didn't think the jury would totally buy that Patrick hadn't known, but there was no doubt that House still was the crux of the prosecution's case and their best argument for Patrick's sanity.

"We aren't going to talk about the case," Jensen reiterated, breaking into his thoughts. "We'll get to it soon enough." He steered the conversation skillfully off into discussion of Rachel, Abby, and even working Cathy and Daniel in. Cuddy felt her gratitude toward the psychiatrist surging again. He was so good at handling House, always with respect yet keeping him calm.

At first.

Morning wore on. Mid morning, Martin's estimate, came and went. Alternative conversational topics grew harder and harder to find, and House's occasional leg-stretching intervals turned into outright pacing.

It was 12:15 when the door opened, and Martin himself entered. "Lunch break," he announced. "We reconvene in an hour."

House had never felt less hungry in his life. "Lunch break? Am I up after that?"

"No, he's still going. Stevenson finally woke up this morning, and he's really trying to rattle Cranston. Not getting very far with him, but he's sure trying. I don't think he can keep this up much longer. You can only attack on one line so long in front of a jury before they get tired of you. It can't be much after lunch until your turn."

"What is there to challenge?" Cuddy protested. "The medical evidence Cranston is interpreting is as cut and dried as it gets."

"The more recent head injuries," Martin explained. "He's obviously laying groundwork for Dr. House having residual effects of those that distort his perceptions. Because of that, I'm _really_ going to emphasize your credentials and professional record, so don't be surprised if I take longer there. I apologize. He gave no indication of this line of questioning yesterday afternoon."

House paced across the room and back. "He knows I'm stuck in here waiting," he said flatly.

"Yes," Martin agreed. "He wants you on edge coming to the stand. But remember, direct comes first. I promise you, there is _no_ chance you're going to face cross examination today. I won't even have to stretch it; there's that much to get through. You don't have to worry about him today, Dr. House, just me, and I'm on your side. Now, you need to go get lunch. It won't be much longer to wait." He studied House, then concluded correctly that he was best left having lunch with his friends and support system and not with the prosecutor. "I'll see you soon," he said and left the room, heading for his own quick meal.

Lunch was a painful experience, House managing to force down only a few bites. Jensen provided a few squares of Cathy's fudge at the end that he had brought along, but even that didn't taste good at the moment. Back into the little room they went. House had put a new heat patch on his leg at the lunch break, but his pacing limp was getting worse. The Ghostbusters tie lay crumpled in the corner of the chair.

At 2:00, the door finally opened, and the court official looked in. "Dr. House? They're calling you."

House jolted to a limping stop. Cuddy picked up the tie, smoothed it out, and carefully tied it again, as loosely as she possibly could. She then, as back in November, took off her ring and put it on his hand instead, the band lining up alongside his own, the two circles touching. Finally, she gave him a kiss. "You'll do great, Greg. You can do this."

"Yeah," he repeated, trying to recapture the sense of preparation. Right now, there was only a sense of the long wait in this room today, and his leg was already hurting.

Jensen touched his arm lightly. "You _can_ do this," he said. "We'll be right there."

Wilson nudged him toward the door. "Come on, House. To prison!"

House gave a shaky smile. "To prison."

He walked out the door and turned toward the courtroom.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I'm not a lawyer, though I have bounced things off one. Sorry for any legal errors.

Thanks for all the reviews. Please don't kill me after this chapter; continuation ASAP.

_Three, two, one . . . _

(H/C)

The court official opened the door, and for the first time during the trial, House entered the courtroom.

Martin had called it crowded. That was an understatement. The only room available anywhere was in the reserved couple of rows up front where witnesses who had finished testifying could sit for the rest of the show. Everywhere else, it was a capacity crowd, including the media corner at the back with a veritable forest of cameras. Just now, things seemed to be in brief time-out, some people standing and stretching their legs while not moving away from their hard-won seats. Martin and presumably the defense attorney were both at the very front having a quiet but involved-looking conversation with the judge. Several of the crowd noticed House enter, and he tried to ignore them, fixing his eyes forward instead, walking down the aisle toward the looming witness stand, painfully aware of the limp. He took Martin's advice and didn't look at the jury, but he did size up the judge. A different one from the preliminary hearing, of course; that one would have had to disqualify himself from any further involvement in this case after the defense shenanigans in his court earlier. This judge looked stern and intelligent.

Jensen, Wilson, and Cuddy ducked into the front row, winding up next to Lucas and Ann Bellinger. Cuddy, nearest the aisle, gave his wrist one final subtle stroke as she sat down, and her smile as he looked at her was reassuring. House looked past her to the rest of these front two rows, noting that almost everybody who had already testified for the prosecution had chosen to stick around. Only Andrews, who had been returned to prison, and the police expert witnesses, who presumably had other fish to fry, were missing. Lucas gave House a friendly smile. House had never met Dr. Cranston before in person; Cranston looked interested but also definitely relieved to be off that stand. His testimony had been a lot harder than he had expected. Not a comforting thought for House himself, who had never expected his to be easy.

Martin finished whatever the brief conference before the bench was, and he apparently won his point, House concluded. Stevenson looked a bit like he had bitten a lemon as he returned to the defense table. House had stopped next to the prosecution table, waiting as long as he could before he had to take the stand, turn around, and face the cameras. Martin spoke very softly as he stopped in front of him. "The judge will take a short recess every hour or so while you're on the stand, direct and cross, long enough to move a little. Believe me, you won't be the only one doing it, either. But we won't have to ask for them, and he doesn't have to give a reason."

His leg. That point hadn't even occurred to House, but yes, sitting on that hard chair for an entire day would have him in spasms by the end of it, no psychological tension required. Martin must have picked that up; in their extensive conferences, House usually had stretched his leg out and taken five when they started getting long. "Thanks," he said just as softly. Even those in the first row couldn't have heard them.

"My pleasure," Martin replied. "Felt good to annoy Stevenson on something after that stunt he just pulled. Let's go."

The judge tapped his gavel lightly. "Order," he commanded. Those who had been standing up stretching their own legs sat back down. House took a deep breath and walked the few remaining feet to the stand. He was sworn in, and then he sat down and for the first time faced the crowd and the cameras. Every last one of them was zeroed in on him. They had all just heard Cranston at length, of course; he could almost feel the pity coming up in waves. He wrenched his eyes away from them, finding Cuddy, and her reassuring smile warmed him a little. He stole one quick glance at Patrick, whom he had been told not to watch either. Patrick had lost weight and added a lot of stress lines during his interval in jail between the evidentiary hearing and this trial. Good.

Martin started off very gently. House was rattled at the moment, and Martin hoped to give him a chance to settle down before they got to the tough subjects. The prosecutor's annoyance at Stevenson was already left behind the minute he started his questions, although it certainly hadn't been his plan to have House wait extensively in that small room, anticipating being called any minute for six hours. Right now, Martin's whole focus was on the witness in front of him. Fortunately, fresh off Cranston's testimony about the abuse, the jury would be very sympathetic toward House right now and probably forgive his obvious tension in the beginning of his testimony. At least, as Martin had pointed out, this was direct, not cross yet. This was the time to recover the familiar, practiced road they had worked so hard on, and nothing else unexpected was going to happen today.

The first questions covered his background professionally, with Martin taking his time, being as thorough as he could without annoying the jury. House gave his dual-specialty qualifications and described the current position at the diagnostics department at PPTH.

"How many diagnostic medicine departments are there in the country, Dr. House?" Martin asked.

"None. The position was created for me. It's a court of last resort for the people who have failed to be diagnosed elsewhere."

"So you get referrals from other facilities, even other top-notch doctors and hospitals?"

"Yes."

"How far do these people travel to come to you?"

"I've had patients come from other countries, even. Most patients from the US, yes, but there are people who have come halfway around the world to Princeton to see me."

"And every one of these patients has already failed treatment elsewhere?"

"Most of them. Sometimes we do pull an interesting local patient from the ER or an in-hospital referral if they have a weird symptom set."

"How many referrals do you get, Dr. House?"

"With patients whom I actually see, I like to go one at a time to focus. The department average from the last few years is 2-3 cases per week."

"What do you mean by patients whom you actually see?" This was going well, Martin thought. House had settled down some since starting, and these questions were familiar, well rehearsed. His eyes occasionally shifted from Martin to Cuddy and back again, but his voice was steady, and his credentials, of course, were impeccable. This was making a good impression as well as steadying House before they got to the tougher subjects.

"I get far more consults than I can see, but I do skim over the requests, and I solve several of the obvious ones just from the information given. I'll send back a diagnosis and treatment suggestions without ever having the patient come to Princeton."

"How do you know your long-distance work is right?"

"I tell the referring doctor to let me know if that doesn't work. By far most of those cases, I never hear from again."

"About how many consult requests do you get per week?"

House looked at Cuddy. "I think some requests come in that never get passed on to me, didn't qualify as last resort enough or such." She nodded firmly. "Of the requests I see, letters and emails with details on patients people want me to take, about 30 per week."

"Which, of course, is why you can't see all of them personally."

"Yes. I work with a very tight focus, throwing absolutely everything into it. It would be impossible to divide the process across that many, and the results on all of the patients would suffer. The most I've ever run is three cases simultaneously, and that pushed me to the limit."

"What is your success rate on patients you physically treat at Princeton?"

"98%." House straightened up a little bit as he said that, justifiably proud of the number.

"And again, this is on people who many times had already failed with other doctors, correct?"

"Yes."

"You've had a couple of serious injuries in the last few years."

"Yes, I have. I was in a serious bus accident three years ago and had a fractured skull, and then my family was hit by a drunk driver 20 months ago, and I had an intracranial bleed when some arteries were damaged." House deleted reference to the gunshot wounds; Martin obviously was going for the head injuries because of Stevenson.

"How much time-off was required with those injuries?"

"A couple of months each time from full hospital duties, but toward the end of that, even while I was still at home, I was answering some of the consult requests by mail and email and having occasional phone conversations with my team. The department never totally stopped."

"What happened to the success rate during those times after you were injured?"

"At first, when I wasn't working at all, it did drop substantially. It went back to usual as soon as I started working again."

"So there is no difference between your success rate today, or last year, and that before any of the MVAs?"

"None." House was firm on that.

Martin gave him a satisfied smile. "You have had some high-profile patients, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have. Several people over the years whose name you would recognize from the news."

"In fact, just a month ago, you treated the President of the United States, didn't you?"

"Yes. I can't tell you any specifics on a case other than what that person chose to publicize themselves, though. That would be a breach of medical confidentiality."

Martin could tell the jury liked that answer, and he paused a moment to let it soak in. "But the White House did state in a press conference that they were staying in Princeton rather than transferring to Washington, D.C., specifically to keep you on the case. Is that true?"

"Yes."

Martin picked up an article from his table. "Your honor, I'd like to introduce this newspaper article into evidence." Questioning paused for a few minutes while they went through the formalities of introducing the article, certifying the source, and handing out copies to judge, defense, and jury. "In the third paragraph down, I'd like to point out this direct quote from the President. 'I must say, Dr. House fully deserves his sterling reputation, and I am grateful to him.'" Martin turned back to House. "And that case was solved successfully, as we know."

"Yes, it was." Minus a few toes, but House didn't blame himself for that. He had treated the issue correctly all along; no better outcome could have been possible. The political idiot was lucky he hadn't lost more than he had.

"Have you published any articles in the last three years, Dr. House?"

"I've published five. The most recent was in the New England Journal of Medicine this April."

"Has there been any comment from colleagues that the quality of your work has decreased at all since you were injured?"

"No. They'd love to get more articles from me, but I haven't got time with the patient work plus my family."

The judge broke in there with a glance at his watch. "Court will take a 15-minute recess," he announced. He stood up himself and left through his side door.

House felt a surge of gratitude. Not even a glance in his direction, nothing to call attention to the reason. In fact, as Martin had predicted, several people in the packed courtroom stood, taking advantage of the break themselves, and a few left the room. House pushed himself to his feet, hiding the flinch. He had been too generally tense to be aware specifically of it while he was testifying, but his leg did not like this seat at all. He carefully limped the few steps down to the floor level and walked a circle, glad nobody among the general public was really paying attention to him at the moment.

Martin came up beside him. "Good job," the prosecutor said softly. "That really went over well with the jury." Martin looked at his own watch. "One more session, and he'll call it quits for today. We're already well into the afternoon. I'm going to go ahead and start getting into the background with your father, and that way, you'll have the whole evening off after beginning that testimony." That hadn't been Martin's original plan to break in the middle of John, but he had never expected to be so late starting with House after Cranston. He thought with the way the day had gone, breaking that part up might be best for his witness, even if not the jury. "That will give you a good break and some time away from things in the middle before finishing up on the abuse and then going on to Christopher and Chandler." He really didn't want to break up the parts on Chandler, who, after all, was the one on trial here. The original plan had been House's qualifications and John today, Chandler tomorrow. Original plans often get changed in court, though. Nothing to do except deal with it. They had recovered well from Stevenson's interference, but House was still more worn down than Martin would like at this point. They'd do the beginning parts of John, going slowly but getting past the psychological hurdle of stating the fact of abuse before everybody, and then a night off with his family and a good night's sleep. Tomorrow would be a new day, starting out fresh.

House nodded. He still felt tense, but the familiar, practiced exchange had steadied him. He looked at Stevenson, who was watching him closely, almost predatorially. Patrick, next to him, was trying to maintain the same air of polite bewilderment from the evidentiary hearing. "Do NOT interact with the defense during breaks," Martin whispered sharply.

House looked away and walked over to Cuddy. She stood up herself, though she didn't draw more attention to them by embracing him here in the courtroom. "Great job, Greg."

"That was the easy part," House pointed out. He looked past her to Jensen.

"Well done," the psychiatrist approved. "That came across very well with the jury."

"He's about to start into what happened with Dad," House said softly. Cuddy reached out to touch his hand, stroking the two rings on his left hand, a silent reminder.

Martin stopped at the prosecution table and poured a drink for himself from the pitcher of water there. He filled a second paper cup, too, and offered that to House. "Want a drink?" House took it gratefully and gulped it down. He had just been wishing for something to moisten his throat, but he wasn't about to try walking out to the water fountain in the hall. Everywhere except this oasis in the front of the courtroom was a teeming mass of people. He crumpled up the cup and left it on the table, then walked another few circles, trying not to tense up more. They were about to get into the abuse. Of course, everybody knew now, and Cranston had just educated them on every single medical detail, at least those which had left physical evidence behind all these decades later. Not that that was all of the injuries. Still, House hated the necessity of this. He forced himself not to look at Patrick, but he tossed Wilson's toast to him mentally. To prison, you bastard. And stay there.

The judge re-entered, and court was called back to order, but Stevenson was on his feet almost before House had sat back down. "Your honor, may I approach the bench?" The judge nodded, and Stevenson came up, joined by Martin. His voice was soft, but House could easily hear it this close, even if nobody else in the courtroom could. "Your honor, Dr. House was talking with the prosecutor during the break. Chopping up examination like this is going to be basically handing the witness a free private consultation with opposing counsel regularly during cross examination. It's an unfair benefit. It will also constantly break up focus for the jury."

"I was not coaching him on answers to questions," Martin stated. "All of our conversation was general. And actually, I have not at any point, even in our meetings before the trial, tried to manipulate or modify his testimony. It stands on its own well enough."

"It's an advantage that no other witness has had," Stevenson protested, looking straight at House as he said it, and the word advantage had a subtle emphasis. House shook his head in disbelief. This attorney was definitely a prize. Any other witness didn't have a gaping hole in his thigh with extensive nerve and muscle damage, and that more than canceled out any "benefit" he might get from taking a break now and then on the stand. He ran one hand over his leg now, feeling the heat patch beneath his fingers. The pain level was more than baseline even after his brief walk, and he was getting tired, too. Maybe he shouldn't have paced so much waiting, but he had _had_ to do something. Just sitting there all that time had been impossible. A few more hours, and he'd soak it out in the hot tub. Nice to think of something past the looming testimony about John.

"There are legitimate physical reasons for the request," Martin insisted. "Reasons which my opponent himself introduced into the record already so that I didn't even have to present them privately to your honor. I wasn't the one who grilled Cranston trying to minimize his leg to make him sound like a drug seeker. You heard Dr. Cranston yourself; the disability and the effects of it are quite real."

House straightened up. Stevenson had challenged Cranston regarding his leg? His eyes glittered, annoyed blue diamonds. He looked back out at his triple cheering squad, the only people in this room who _wouldn't_ have heard that clash during Cranston's cross examination. All three of them looked curious, wondering what the private conference was about. Cuddy met House's eyes and gave him a confused smile, obviously wishing she knew more details but aware that something about their topic was annoying him at the moment. House was glad she hadn't been in the courtroom to hear Stevenson take shots at his leg, come to think of it.

The judge was speaking now. "Mr. Martin is right; you already introduced details and effects of the disability yourself into this trial, Mr. Stevenson. Making accommodations for witnesses with established medical reasons for them is not prejudicial. As for the chopped-up effect of testimony on the jury, that obviously applies equally to direct as well as cross, so it is not an unfair benefit to the prosecution. I'm disallowing your objection."

Stevenson looked like he had just bitten into another lemon, but he controlled his face before he turned away and the jury saw him. He walked back to the defense table, and Martin took a few steps over to face House. House was annoyed now, and he could tell it. The way Stevenson was trying to influence even direct examination with his star witness, not even waiting for his opportunity at cross, was irritating, but Martin had to let it go. Focus on the questions. Get back into practiced routes; this next particular part of House's testimony, of course, had been covered many times.

"Dr. House," he started, "the court has heard testimony already from Dr. Cranston. Have you ever met Dr. Cranston in your life?"

"Not before taking the stand just now." House looked at Cranston, who was watching him steadily. There, at least, he sensed no pity. "I'm familiar with his reputation, but I've never spoken to him at all. Still haven't."

"Have you seen Dr. Cranston's report on the full body scan you underwent recently?"

"No, I haven't. I looked at the films themselves, but I never saw his report or communicated with him about it."

"His report concludes that during your childhood, you were significantly physically abused over a period of many years."

Stevenson hit his feet. "Objection. Leading the witness. That wasn't even a question."

The judge looked at Martin. "I'll rephrase it," Martin replied. Okay, so it _was_ leading the witness. He had been trying to state the initial fact himself so that House would only have to agree with him; he could sense that House not only was tense but was wearing down physically. Obviously, Stevenson wasn't going to allow him to make it easy on his witness. As if _anything _in House's testimony anyway could have been made easy. "Dr. House, were you abused as a child?"

House looked past him to Cuddy, who was willing him strength at the moment. "Yes," he answered after a moment. The one word seemed a mountain. All the cameras, all the people watching. He tried not to look at them and focus only on her.

"By whom?"

"By my father."

"How long did the abuse continue?"

"Physically, it started when I was three, and it ended in my teens when I got big enough to fight back. Emotionally, it also started when I was three and continued all my life until his death almost three years ago." House was tense, but the answers were steady. He had done this examination many times, both with Martin and with Jensen. It helped.

"Your Honor, I'd like to refer to the copy of Blythe House's therapy notes which was introduced earlier along with the testimony on where and how they were found." The PI who had stolen said notes had been imported to Princeton for the trial and had been quite happy to throw Patrick under the bus, but he was long gone back to jail in Kentucky. Martin walked back to the table and carefully picked up the copy of the notes, then waited for the jury and judge to all locate their own copies. Martin stretched the wait out as far as he could. Now that the overall statement was past them, he wished the judge would dismiss for the day, but it wasn't quite close enough to time yet. House was doing well, but he was getting tired. "The event we will be referring to is mentioned multiple times throughout these notes. The first time occurs at the bottom of page 2 in the last paragraph." He waited again, giving them ample time, then strolled back casually to face his witness. "You mentioned emotional abuse, Dr. House. What specifically was the form of the emotional abuse?"

"Several things, but the biggest was the threat against my mother." House's eyes found Cuddy again. Martin was being careful to never stand directly between them. He touched the two rings, feeling her with him. "My father told me never to tell anyone, because if anybody else ever found out, he would -" House hesitated, then went on. "He would kill her in front of me, and that would be my fault."

Dead silence ricocheted around the courtroom for a moment. Martin waited out the impact, gaining some more precious time. "You were three when he first said this?"

"Yes."

Martin could almost feel the sympathy from the jury. House was absolutely believable, not overdone but still carrying obvious emotional impact. Well done, he thought. Hang in there; we don't have much longer on today. "And this threat continued throughout your life?"

"Throughout Dad's life. Even after I left home, he would remind me every chance he got."

"When you were older and could reasonably look at that threat, did you think it was an empty one?"

House shuddered slightly. "No. Dad was a Marine. He knew how to kill people; he would even brag about it sometimes. I still think he could have carried that out."

Martin paused as long as he could, gaining a few more seconds. "Did your mother ever know about this threat or your father's actions?"

"Not while he was alive. I never told _anybody_ while he was alive."

"For the sake of protecting her?"

"Yes."

Another wave of sympathy across the jury and the crowd, even the media getting into it. Somebody moved abruptly toward the back, well off the aisle, and as Martin paused again to give him a brief respite during the reaction, House looked that way briefly, toward the sudden motion.

In the next second, he straightened up, his attention sharpening as if he had been hit with a jolt of electricity. He stared at the far back corner of the courtroom, and Martin saw his eyes ignite. "Dr. House," he said, trying to make it sound like the start of the next question and not an attempt to drag his attention back to his testimony. Martin took half a step sideways, landing directly between House and the object of his fixed interest, and House looked back at him. House wasn't just annoyed now as he had been by Stevenson earlier. He was furious, more mad than Martin had ever seen him in all the months of work on this case. Disability or not, Martin would not have wanted to run into him in a dark alley at the moment.

"Back to what happened with your father," Martin prompted. "I'm going to give you a few other key phrases, and I want you to tell me the specific significance of them. Your honor, each of these phrases and events associated with them also appears in the therapy notes. The first one can be found at the bottom of page 6." He waited as long as he could for the jury to find their place. He had no idea what the hell had just happened with House, but Martin had to keep going on the direct examination until the judge decided to dismiss for the day. The jury was slower to find their place that time; they had noticed House's jump and were wondering about it. No doubt everybody in the courtroom had noticed. It would have been hard to miss it.

Out in the seats, Cuddy was completely bewildered. He had been doing so well, the tiredness and pain extended out to claim him inch by inch as they sometimes did at the end of tough days, but he had been holding himself together, his testimony firm, coming across very well to the jury. And then - what? She even twisted around herself to try to look toward whatever or whomever he had seen. She saw nothing. The room was packed, but nobody jumped out at her. House hadn't looked back at her since then, either. Martin was physically blocking his line of sight off, but whatever was in that corner was the sole object of interest in the room for him at the moment. She, too, saw the fury in his eyes. She had never seen him this mad herself, not even when he received the papers on the Bellinger lawsuit last fall and thought at first that Jensen had given away his secrets. She looked over at Jensen, who was studying House himself, looking deeply concerned. "What the hell?" Wilson whispered. Cuddy shrugged. Jensen didn't reply.

Martin continued with a sense of dread. Please dismiss court, he thought fiercely toward the judge. "Okay, Dr. House. What does the word sorry mean to you?"

House didn't even flinch at it, nor did he look at Cuddy. Instead, he jumped almost eagerly to answer the question. This had none of the resolutely controlled memories of his description of the threat against Blythe. He almost seemed like he was firing the words like arrows at somebody. "When I was 8 years old, I was five minutes late getting home to dinner one night. Dad was furious, and I got the usual speech about diligence and promptness and duty. He was always big on those. Good Marine qualities, you know. I had gone upstairs first - I wasn't allowed to use the downstairs bathroom." Martin flinched, not just at the revelation but at the fact that House was sticking in new material on the stand. "Dad cornered me as I was leaving, and I backed clear down the hall while he was lecturing me. He got me right up against the stairs, nowhere else to back, and I was still trying to apologize. He said he'd prove to me that the words didn't really mean anything. Then he said, 'I'm sorry, Greg,' right as he pushed me." This time, House didn't stop to recollect himself at the end, and he still wasn't looking at Cuddy. "I fell clear down the staircase and broke my left arm. Mid radius fracture, a pretty severe one, bad enough that we actually had to go to the ER. Of course, I had the lecture first on what to tell them, and I knew Mom would pay for it if I told the truth. Any time the injuries were obvious, I had to say I was just clumsy. Everybody around him must have heard that lots of times."

Martin jumped in as House paused for breath. "Thank you, Dr. House. I apologize for making you go over this again. Now, your honor, if you would turn to the bottom of . . . " Martin paused himself, desperately killing time as he pretended to try to find the appropriate page. "On page 10, as well as a few other pages. It's also on page 13." He waited to give the jury time to vote between page 10 and page 13. House was watching him steadily, breathing a little fast. His eyes were burning blue lasers, threatening to go clear through Martin to the mystery corner behind him. "On page 10, it's in the 3rd paragraph. On page 13, it's second paragraph up from the bottom."

"Okay, Mr. Martin, I think they've found it," the judge prompted.

"Ice. What does that mean to you, Dr. House?"

Again, the answer was immediate and extensive. "Dad would give me ice baths sometimes. He always called it a form of training; he'd even hold me under, wanting me to hold my breath, then mocking me when I couldn't hold it that long. I had pneumonia a few times as a child from that and even frostbite once. All the time, he'd be reminding me never to tell or what he'd do with my mother." Why on earth does he keep going back to his mother in every answer? Martin wondered. "The ice baths would be for being late, or having the wrong friends, or not saying sir and reporting like a good officer. He'd make me sleep outside in the yard sometimes, too. Even in the middle of winter."

House stopped, and Martin flipped a page on the notes, acting like he was looking for his next prompt. Abruptly, the judge looked at his watch and stepped in. "Mr. Martin, how much more is left on this particular line of questioning?"

"Quite a bit, your honor," Martin answered. He felt like getting down on his knees and praying to the bench. Let us out now.

"I think we'll have to wait for the rest of it. We will reconvene at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. Court is adjourned." The judge smacked his gavel down.

The media quickly started pushing for the exits; they were forbidden to report from inside the courtroom. They could record but had to use that footage later. Right now, they bolted toward their respective evening news broadcasts like a full field for the Kentucky Derby breaking from the starting gate. Patrick was quickly taken away by the guards, and the jury was escorted out through the side door back to their sequestered arrangements for the night.

Martin put his papers down and walked to the stand, trying not to look half as urgent as he felt. "Dr. House, what's wrong?" he asked softly.

House had stood up and was busy holding onto the edge of the stand and slowly convincing his leg to work. His extreme tension obviously had it in knots. He still looked ready to kill somebody. "Nothing," he said. "Just one little thing I need to deal with myself tonight; doesn't involve you. I'll see you in the morning." He limped forward out of the box and tripped on the step. Martin steadied him, already being right there, although Cuddy was coming quickly, Jensen and Wilson right behind her.

"Greg?" she asked, reaching him and putting both hands on his other arm.

He shook his head. "It's okay. Go on home, all right? I'll meet you there in a little while, have one little errand first." He stamped his bad leg impatiently, trying to convince it to work, and stiffly limped another few steps, his gaze still fixed. Abruptly, he stopped trying to force his body to go chase somebody. It was no longer necessary; his quarry was coming to him.

The whole group followed his eyes. The man heading their way was obvious, swimming upstream like a salmon against the flow of the exiting crowd. He was elderly but in good condition still, tall with silver hair and a chiseled face. Cuddy had never seen him before, though he looked oddly familiar the closer he got. He walked up to House and stopped, his expression a mixture of deep sadness and tentativeness. Blue met blue, their eyes level, and his voice was soft as he spoke. "Hello, Greg."


	6. Chapter 6

Very short update, sorry (insert image of House and Cuddy kissing), but I'll throw you a small further bone in response to all the reviews. I didn't have time to write more tonight. Hopefully more before long.

Reminder: As I went AU in the middle of the Greater Good, once again, I can freely modify anything the show mentioned later. No preacher/author fathers here as was mentioned in that one episode in S6.

(H/C)

House didn't reply to the greeting. Cuddy stared at the man, trying to decide what was familiar about him. "Who are you?"

Wilson put it together fairly quickly, based on his quick glance at John's funeral almost three years ago. "This is his father," the oncologist stated.

"His. . .you mean his real father?" Martin asked. The prosecutor felt his dread sink to new levels. Here? Today? At the _trial_? He didn't think House was even in touch with him. While the fact that John wasn't his biological father was reported in Blythe's therapy notes, it wasn't elaborated upon at all, and House had never once mentioned it in all their talk of his past other than a possible motive for John. Martin knew that no father had been in the picture as part of his support system in trial preparation. Blythe's absence from the trial at House's request had been mentioned, but nothing about a biological dad. Of all the times to stage a reunion, Martin couldn't imagine a worse one.

"No, he's not my _real_ father," House said pointedly, all the anger he felt clear in his tone. "Not any more than that. . . that bastard was. This one was the semen donor. I never _had_ a real father."

Cuddy felt her heart crack inside her at the poignancy of the statement. She tightened up her grip on her husband's arm, and he looked over at her. She was getting mad now herself. She studied this man whom House had never really talked about other than the fact of his existence. Now that she looked for it, the physical resemblance was obvious. Those blue eyes were not quite House's shade of blue, but the expression in them and the structure of the whole face was similar, as was the height. House was also much closer to this man's build than to John's.

The man at least had the grace to look guilty at the comment. "Greg, I . . .really, this isn't how I meant for this to go. But I knew you recognized me this afternoon, even with me trying to be inconspicuous at the back." He looked around, suddenly remembering that they were in a public place. "Is there somewhere more private we could go? I'd like to talk to you."

Martin couldn't resist jumping in there. He had already been worried about his witness being too worn down by the end of this afternoon even before everything had gone haywire. And tomorrow, with a full day on the stand and no doubt at least starting cross examination, would be brutal. "Does it have to be _tonight_? I really don't think . . ."

House cut him off ruthlessly. "Well, _I _think it's a great idea. I have several things I'd love to get on the table, and no time like the present, since you're so conveniently here." He turned to the rest of them. "Like I said, I'll meet you all at home in a little while. Come on, _Dad_." The sarcasm was absolutely dripping off the title.

Jensen was fighting his own sense of dread. He had more information than anybody else here except House about a few things, and House was already exhausted beneath the fury. Unfortunately, that combination would just make him more stubborn. Jensen made one last futile attempt to postpone the avalanche. "That is _not_ a good idea. You don't need to do this tonight, and you definitely don't need to do it on your own."

House predictably turned on him. "I didn't ask you. This is _my_ decision, and I've made it."

Cuddy tightened her grip on his arm, digging in. "Like _hell_. If you think I'm going to let you just walk out of this court right now without me, you don't know me at all. We're _partners_ now, Greg, so stop acting like you're still alone."

House looked at her, startled. He had expected the sharp tone, but her final sentence brought him up short. Beside him, Jensen gave her an approving nod; she was the only one of them who could claim the right to stay with him at the moment, with the strongest tie of all on her side. The psychiatrist still thought this was an awful idea and would accomplish nothing, but House going off alone was an even worse one. Wilson was fighting to keep his own mouth shut, knowing that Cuddy held a higher-ranking hand than he did and that his protest would be useless. If House had bitten Jensen's head off, he wasn't going to listen to anybody else except his wife. Martin looked almost physically sick, torn between genuine concern for House, whom he liked and admired by this point, and dread about what shape his witness would be in tomorrow.

House finally replied to Cuddy, but it was a statement, not a vicious slash like he had taken at Jensen. "I _need_ to do this, Lisa."

"Okay," she replied. "You do whatever you have to. Seriously, Greg; I won't stop you. But there is no way in hell I'm letting you do it alone. For better or for worse, remember?" She took her ring off his hand and put it back on hers for emphasis.

She saw the annoyed respect in his eyes. "Come on, then." He started toward the door of the courtroom, his leg clearly giving him hell, but his shoulders were ramrod straight. He looked more like John the eternal Marine at that moment than like his biological father. The other man still looked guilty but also resolute as he turned and followed the two of them out of the nearly empty courtroom.

Jensen let out a deep breath. "_Damn_ it," he whispered.

Wilson sighed. "I thought of pushing it myself, but he wouldn't have listened to me."

"No," Jensen agreed. "Tonight, he wouldn't have listened to anybody except her."

"How the hell did his father turn up here at the trial anyway? I _guarantee_ House hasn't even talked to him in decades. He would have mentioned that when he brought him up on the funeral trip."

Martin suddenly came to life out of his visions of legal doomsday as he realized the one other person remaining in the room. Stevenson sat at the defense table, openly eavesdropping, his papers only half collected in front of him. Jensen and Wilson both felt Martin's focus shift and followed his gaze.

Stevenson made a show of collecting the rest of his papers and stuffing them into his briefcase, then stood up. "See you tomorrow in court, Martin," he said pleasantly, and with a low chuckle, he walked out of the courtroom.


	7. Chapter 7

Cuddy drove to the jogging park next to PPTH, reassuringly familiar ground for House but not usually crowded and with picnic tables widely separated for private conversation. House's father followed them in his rental car, which he said he had picked up at the airport. She wondered where he lived. Wherever it was, he could go back there, yesterday.

House was silent throughout the drive, lost in thought enough that he wasn't even aware of his right hand constantly massaging his leg. His face was absolutely set in lines of anger still. Cuddy looked over at him every chance she got in traffic, her own anger balanced out by concern. Her husband had had far too much mental and physical tension already today, even before his father entered the picture, and the forecast for tomorrow, even without his father, wasn't an improvement. He also had barely had anything to eat at lunch. Tonight, what he needed most was a good meal, a full round of meds, a hot soak, and going to bed early.

His father had offered to buy them dinner somewhere, but Cuddy and House had turned it down in unison. She knew he was far too tense to eat right now, even if he needed it. She would have had trouble choking down a meal herself in the middle of this coming conversation. What a hell of a day, not even over yet.

And tomorrow . . .

Just let tonight be over quickly, she prayed silently. She knew it wouldn't be, though. Even if the conversation was short-lived, the effects of this would go on for quite a while. House's father was right in that much, coming forward when court was dismissed. Once House had spotted him from the stand and recognized him, there had been no easy way to handle it. Just leaving without talking to his son would have only made things worse; might as well go ahead and get as much closure as could be gotten in a conversation. But she was still on an increasing boil herself as she thought about this man turning up here in court today after all these years.

She pulled into a parking area near a few unoccupied picnic tables, switched off the car, and turned to face her husband. "Greg?" She touched his arm gently, and he looked over at her, then around at the park.

"Sure you want to go through with this, Lisa? It might get ugly."

She squeezed his hand fiercely. "I married _all_ of you, Greg. Past included. It's not just yours anymore. And trust me, there is nothing I could see from you that would change how I feel. Rip him to pieces if you need to; it's fine with me." He studied her, gauging her sincerity, then relaxed a fraction at the uncompromised truth in her tone and her eyes. "But please," she continued, "remember that you have to testify again tomorrow. We really do need to get to bed at a decent hour."

"Oh, I know that. Can't let _this_ impact Patrick. Don't worry; this isn't going to take long at all. I said it might get ugly, not extended. We'll be out of here in five minutes." He opened the car door briskly, but the effect of his intended crisp exit was ruined by the fact that, as always, he had to move his leg over slowly and with difficulty for the turn to get out.

Cuddy held back the sigh, not letting it escape and annoy him further. Ugly she could believe. Five minutes, no way. She got out herself and slammed the car door, and House gave her a surprised look, realizing that she was annoyed at more here than him. He'd thought it was just him back in the courtroom. She met his eyes over the car as he hauled himself to his feet, hanging onto the top of the car door for leverage and balance. "What are you mad at him for?" he asked.

"A whole list, but it's not only him. It _can't_ be coincidence that he just turned up here today in court."

"Definitely not," he agreed. "That was arranged by somebody. Stevenson."

She paused momentarily in her walk around the car to join him, surprised. "The defense attorney? No, this has Blythe written all over it."

He faced her, the open car door between them. "Mom wouldn't spring him on me at the trial. I just talked to her yesterday; she was wishing me luck. Never mentioned him and didn't sound like she was hiding anything, either. She has no sense of timing, agreed, but she wouldn't do _this._ The defense attorney, on the other hand, has already proven that he wants play mind games with me, and he's not even waiting for cross examination to do it."

She shook her head firmly. "He's definitely a snake, but my money is still on Blythe."

"Nope. Stevenson."

"So let's pin him down and drag it out of him, and we'll see who's right," she suggested, and he gave her a shaky grin, set his balance with the cane, and closed the car door.

That explained his absolute fury, she thought. He never got as angry at Blythe as he should, in her opinion, but seeing this as another dirty defense trick, Stevenson going to the trouble to track down his father and stage a reunion there in the courtroom, yes, that would tick him off royally. It wasn't even a dirty defense trick about which he could protest to the judge, as he had been so extensively coached to do. Nothing illegal about it, just thoroughly underhanded. But she still thought it had been Blythe. There was also the fact that the man had been in the back of the courtroom and, as he said, trying to be inconspicuous. That didn't spell Stevenson; the defense would have had him walk in at a break and sit down in the front row or something, all but wearing a neon sign to make sure he was noticed. Blythe, on the other hand, she could easily see mentioning to House's father that the trial was starting and suggesting that he go undercover to see his son on the stand, even more so since Blythe herself had been asked not to come watch.

Whatever the origin of this visit, she did have to grudgingly admit that the man had patience and even some sensitivity. He had parked a few places down from them instead of right beside her car, and he sat there in his vehicle politely waiting for their personal discussion to finish. When they started for the nearest picnic table together, Cuddy's right arm looped through House's left, he got out and walked across the grass to join them.

House stopped at the picnic table and turned back to face the other man. "Sit down, Greg," Cuddy whispered, hoping his stubbornness wouldn't extend that far. He didn't need to be on his feet through the coming conflict. He shot her an annoyed look but sat down after a moment's hesitation, and Cuddy promptly sat down next to him so he wouldn't be the only one. His father dropped into the other side of the table.

"Greg," he started, "like I said, this is _not_ what I meant to happen today. I didn't expect you to recognize me in that crowd. I never meant to upset you on the stand."

"Bull," House snapped. "We both know that was the whole point of it. There's only one thing I'm left wondering: How much did he pay you?"

His father was confused out of mid apology. "Who?"

"Cut the crap; we're just wasting time. The defense attorney. So what was your price?"

Realization dawned fairly quickly. "Nobody paid me to be here, Greg. This isn't some defense trick, although I understand where you might think so; I wouldn't trust that man an inch, either. But I came to the trial on my own."

House looked dubious, and Cuddy jumped in. "With a little help from his mother, you mean."

He shook his head. "I haven't even spoken to Blythe since John's funeral. Nobody else even knows I'm here. This wasn't arranged."

Cuddy's cell phone rang at that moment, and she pulled it out. "Marina," she said to her husband. "Hello, Marina. Yes, we're fine. Something else came up after court. We shouldn't be too long. Yes, I know he needs to, believe me." She looked at her husband, trying to keep open concern out of her eyes. "Wilson? If Wilson and Jensen are there and don't mind, you can leave the girls with them and go on home. Might as well let somebody have the evening they planned on. No, it's okay. We're all right, really. We'll see you in the morning, okay? Yes, with the cereal, I know. Good night." She hung up.

"If I had lucky cereal this morning," House noted, "I want unlucky cereal tomorrow. It didn't work."

"Try telling her that. Easier just to pacify her. Wilson is there; he brought Jensen home from court, but he also volunteered to keep the girls and let Marina leave."

House sighed. "Conveniently giving him an excuse for a report later the minute we get in. I'd have to give him one tomorrow morning if not tonight, though. Might as well face the music."

His father had been trying not to obviously listen to that call, but he couldn't help it. He perked up slightly now. "Girls? You have girls?" His eyes took on that "grandkids" gleam that they already knew well from Blythe and Cuddy's parents.

"You never even wanted a part of my life. You can't just turn up and march straight into theirs," House protested.

Cuddy was staring at the man. "You really _haven't_ talked to Blythe, have you?"

"No. Call her and ask if you don't believe me. Like I said, I haven't talked to her in three years. And Greg, it isn't that I didn't ever want a part of your life, it's that I thought it was better that way."

House erupted. "Better? You thought it was _better_?" He shot off the bench like a bottle rocket, not even giving his leg a moment to adjust to the change in position. "I was in _hell_, and you thought that was _better_?" He was pacing a jerky, rapid circle around the table like a lame carousel now.

Cuddy got up herself, cutting off his father's next comment with a vicious slash of her hand. She caught up to her husband and took his arm, trying to drag him to a stop. "Greg, please, sit down. Okay? You're going to . . ."

He spun around to face her and in the abrupt movement did exactly what she feared, triggering a full scale muscle spasm in his leg, which had hit the limit for today. He nearly fell over. Cuddy caught him and helped him a few steps to the nearest side of the table. "Whatever your name is," she snapped, "go over to the concession stand across the park and buy a chocolate milkshake." His father left swiftly, and Cuddy sat down beside House, working on his leg with both hands. The heat patch was still there below the scar, stuck to sound skin as close to the injury as it could get, but it was starting to die at this point. She avoided it, having plenty of other area to work on. He sat unprotesting, head down, breathing heavily. Slowly she worked out the spasm, but she could still feel the muscles trembling slightly beneath her fingers. Finally, she let go for a minute, long enough to retrieve her purse from the other side of the table and extract the bottle of Flexeril. She had brought a few of his p.r.n. meds, though stopping short of the morphine, just in case they were needed. "Here, Greg." She shook one out and handed it to him. "Flexeril."

He raised his head slightly there and looked at her. "I left it locked up in the med cabinet."

"And I took it out after that. I've got Ativan, too, if you want one."

He shook his head firmly, but he did at least accept the Flexeril. "He's bringing a milkshake," Cuddy said. "When that gets here, go ahead and take all the pain meds, even the NSAIDs. I know that isn't a meal, but some of it along with them will be good enough this once, and you really need them right now." He had skipped the NSAIDs at lunch, not having eaten enough lunch to take them with without risking giving himself a stomachache.

House was still a bit breathless. Carefully, waiting for the sharp-toothed monster to bite into his thigh again, he reached into his pockets and extracted his pill bottles. He started shaking out pills.

Cuddy looked around toward the summertime concession stand across the park. His father was coming back, running in a way that suddenly brought a lump to her throat and tears to her eyes. That long-legged, graceful stride it was _so_ painfully familiar. He came up to them and offered the chocolate milkshake he held to House, then immediately turned around, not commenting on the multiple pill bottles. "I'll go get us two more. It was faster to just have them make one the first time." He headed back toward the stand, walking this time, unhurried, and Cuddy felt a surge of gratitude at his quiet perceptiveness. In that moment, she believed him. Whyever he was here now, and admittedly it was abysmal timing, he wasn't here as an informant for Blythe or a tool for the defense.

By the time he ambled back ten minutes later, House was breathing evenly again, and the pill bottles had been put away. About two-thirds of House's milkshake was gone under Cuddy's quiet urging. He was still very tense, but he loved the ones from that stand; they often came to this park with the girls in the summer. House's father sat down on the other side of the table, with the parties now on opposite sides from where they had started, and he handed a milkshake to Cuddy and took a long pull of his own. House fished out his wallet gingerly and silently handed him a ten, and the man hesitated, then reluctantly took it. He obviously would rather not, but he didn't want to start a fight or upset his son again, either.

"Let's try this again," he started. "First of all," he said, looking at Cuddy, "my name is Thomas Thornton. I live in St. Louis, but I've been overseas for the last year, just got back last week. When I returned, I saw the story about the trial starting in the papers; you know that Chandler was in Missouri for a while, too. I saw your name, Greg, and I researched the back articles from last fall that they referenced. I was . . ." He trailed off and looked straight at his son. "I was absolutely appalled, Greg. Believe me, I had no idea; I feel awful about missing all that. I shouldn't have, even with intermittent visits. But I was hoping that. . . well, that the media was blowing things out of proportion or had some of the facts wrong. I've been around enough not to believe something just because I read it in the papers or saw it on TV. I came to the trial to hear the facts for myself, hoping and praying that what I'd read was off base. If it was correct, I was going to contact you at some point after the trial and try to gradually build a relationship, not that an apology would ever be enough. I never meant to stage a reunion there in court; that's why I was clear in the back corner. With the crowd like it was, I thought that would be safe enough. But I also had no idea up until the moment you saw me this afternoon and reacted that sharply that you knew I was your biological father. That's why I always stayed out of the way."

House snorted. "I worked it out when I was 12."

"Your mother never mentioned that to me."

"Mom never knew that I knew. Oh, she knew Dad was especially ticked off at me that summer for something; I told him. More like mocked him. You know there never were any more kids, and obviously the problem was not with Mom, so I put inadequacy where it clearly went. But I never told her. She didn't know I knew until a few years ago, about when she started therapy herself."

"But you yourself knew at the funeral?" House nodded. "I was watching you, Greg. When you went to the coffin and nearly broke down and bent over. . ."

House cut him off. "I was bending over to take a tissue sample of the SOB's earlobe, snipped it right off there in front of everybody. That's when I did DNA testing to confirm, but I'd known for decades."

"I didn't realize that, Greg. Really. That would have changed things, at least after you left home."

House shuddered suddenly. "_He_ wouldn't have liked it, and he still had her. He would still threaten her to me any chance he got." Cuddy picked up his hand, squeezing it tightly.

His father closed his eyes briefly. "I' apologize, Greg. I never knew." Cuddy remembered then that it was right after House's testimony about the threat to Blythe that he had suddenly noticed his father, although he'd been on the stand for quite a while at that point. Had the man jumped guiltily there, hearing it all in person for the first time?

House looked at him, the fire igniting in his blue eyes again. "Besides, you had your chance a long time ago, and you didn't want it. I asked you once to get me out of there, and you _laughed_ at me." Thomas looked startled, then thoughtful. "I'll prompt your memory. I was six. It was one of the times you had come to visit, and I asked you to take me and Mom away so we could live with you instead. You thought it was _cute_, and you told me that you didn't need to, because I belonged with _him_." House was trembling slightly now. "Dad didn't think it was cute later that night. Course I didn't realize who you were yet, but you actually seemed to like me."

Cuddy tightened her grip on his hand, feeling her heart breaking again at that lost, hurt boy, trying to reach out as much as he dared and getting nothing in return but pain for it.

Thomas looked half sick himself now. "I didn't know you _meant _it, Greg. You didn't give the reason, and . . ."

"I _couldn't_," House shouted. His breathing was picking up again. Cuddy slid over closer to him, trying to give him her presence. "I said as much as I possibly could, and even that was pushing the limits. And he was sure to let me know it that night."

Silence descended for a minute as the others obviously gave House a break. Cuddy finished off her milkshake, though she didn't really want it, and Thomas did the same. House was trying to calm himself, taking even breaths. Finally, he spoke again, his soft words somehow just as sharp as his shout earlier. "That was the only time I ever tried to get away. The one time in childhood I ever tried to reach out, it was to you, and you laughed at me and told me I was where I belonged."

The other man actually had tears in his eyes. "Greg, I apologize. I know it isn't enough, but I swear, if I had realized what you were saying, if I'd known what was going on, I would have gotten you and your mother out of there. I wish I'd known."

"Why didn't you?" House threw the words back at him. "I know you and Dad weren't always stationed together, but we saw you every year or two at least for a visit. And I guarantee that every time after I was six that you came, I had some fresh injury. Some of them even visible. Because every time, when he knew you were coming, Dad would 'remind' me to keep my damn mouth shut, or Mom would pay for it. You should have worked it out."

Cuddy was starting to get a little confused. Not that she didn't agree with him, but it was puzzling that he had this much anger against his father for missing what was obvious in retrospect when he didn't have it against Blythe, who had had far more clues and constant exposure. More work for Jensen, probably. But it didn't quite make sense to her.

"You're right," Thomas said. "I should have. I don't have an excuse for missing it."

Well, some differences from Blythe, Cuddy thought. His father had far more intelligence and was perceptive enough to realize that he couldn't just "apologize" and fix this.

House jumped tracks suddenly. "So why haven't you been in touch with Mom for three years? You knew Dad was dead. Course, you were married, but marriage didn't stop you before."

Thomas flinched as that barb went home. "I wasn't married until a few years after I was with your mother."

"_She_ was," House pointed out, "and you knew that at the time."

"Yes. That was wrong. It was a one-time spontaneous thing, not a planned affair, but it was still wrong of both of us. Back to your question, I've been out of touch the last few years because my wife was diagnosed with cancer herself shortly before John's funeral. We had nearly two years of trying every straw and having it all just make her feel worse anyway. She died a year ago. That's actually why I went overseas traveling for the last year, to clear my head and cope with losing her. But between her illness and me being gone since, that's why I hadn't talked to Blythe even as a friend lately and also why I missed what happened last fall with you. I have always followed your life from a distance, Greg."

House didn't reply. Cuddy gave him a moment, then asked, "Do you have children. I mean other children?"

"One son. Killed in a car wreck 15 years ago."

"I'm sorry," she said, conventional sympathy, but giving House's hand a squeeze at the same time, acknowledging their private meaning to it.

"Did your wife know about me?" House asked suddenly.

"Yes, she did. She was very interested to see you at the funeral after hearing so much. We visited Blythe and John occasionally, but you were never there after you left home."

"There were _reasons_ for that," House reminded him, and Thomas looked guilty again.

"So you're married," he said, looking at Cuddy. "You weren't married when you were at the funeral, were you? She wasn't there." Cuddy flinched, feeling her own guilt surge up on thoughts of the funeral.

"Yes, I'm married now." House tried to leave it there, then finally unwillingly threw the other man a further tidbit. "We have two daughters."

Thomas smiled. "I'd like to see . . ." He broke off as House tensed up again. He reached into his pocket and took out a business card, offering it to his son across the table. "There's my address, cell number, and email. I'm staying at the Ramada right now. Greg, I know I've done so many things wrong during your childhood and since. Like I said, I have no excuse for that. But maybe, now and then, we could talk. Or just email, if you don't want to talk. I'd like to get to know you."

House didn't answer. The world seemed to stop on its axis as the card lay there on the table between them. After a long minute, House picked up the card and tucked it into his wallet. He did not offer one of his own.

"Would you rather that I didn't come back to the trial?"

There was still anger in House's eyes, even if not the initial fury. "Since you're here, you might as well hear the whole story. _Not_ that what you're going to hear is the whole story. Just the tip of the iceberg, but it's an iceberg you contributed to, after all." He pushed himself to his feet abruptly, hanging onto the edge of the table and giving his leg a chance to wake up. "But go in the overflow room. They've got closed circuit somewhere else in the courthouse. I _have_ to focus on taking this bastard Patrick down. Besides that, right now, I don't want to look at you." He turned away and limped back toward the car. Cuddy stood quickly and collected her purse. She gave his father a tentative smile, then followed her husband to the car.

House sat in the front seat, just breathing, remembering, one hand massaging his leg. Cuddy got in the driver's side and slid as close as she could to him, her arm around his shoulders. They sat there in silence for a few minutes as he waited for suggestions or criticism or telling him what she thought he needed to do now. None of it came. Slowly he realized that she really _was_ leaving tonight up to him, whatever he needed to do, as she had said. Her only point of insistence was that he not do it alone.

Once he would have felt like heading out to a bar after this scene. No longer. He wasn't alone anymore.

"Let's go home," he said softly.

"Okay, Greg." She turned on the car, but as soon as she put it into gear, she returned her free hand to his, holding on through the drive, and his fingers squeezed hers in return.

In the park, Thomas Thornton sat for a long time alone at the picnic table, shoulders slumped, silent tears falling, unaware of the summer evening around him.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Another chapter to close out the week. Unfortunately, you're only getting it because of light work load and extra time sitting at the computer waiting for work. Hi, readers, send money. Or at least, send reviews. Enjoy, but don't count on this pace of posting things holding.

Second A/N 12 hours later: Apparently FF net is having one of its techno burps and didn't take the chapter, although it told me it did. I'm trying resending it.

(H/C)

It was a long and uneasy evening at the House house waiting, the short hours seeming to stretch to eternity. Wilson and Jensen both were wound up, although Jensen hid it better from the girls. Both Rachel and Abby were on edge, too, constantly asking for their parents, especially House, and Wilson dreaded trying to get them to sleep by 7:00. Fortunately, they had been on edge all day, even with Marina, and were worn out by this point. After dinner and some play time, sleep took them prisoner in spite of their fierce resistance.

Wilson crept on tip-toe out of the nursery, pulling the door shut behind him. Jensen had left the room a minute earlier and was already in the living room, still on his feet, looking out the window. Wilson quickly walked over to him. "How did his father just turn up here?" The restrained conversation from the last hour or two burst out like a breaking dam.

"I don't know," Jensen pointed out. The psychiatrist was truly worried. He knew about House's request at age 6, but there hadn't been nearly as much anger in the tale in Jensen's office as he had shown in the courtroom. Jensen thought that the shock of having a supposedly closed episode of his past abruptly publicly reopened, as well as suspicion of his father's motives, had knocked House totally off balance. But that combined with his exhaustion and stress from the day already had thrown him straight into one of his occasional "I need to deal with this right now, by myself, in the next five minutes, and get it _finished_" moods. He was dangerous to himself in those moods. Psychologically, that approach was never productive.

Thank God for Cuddy; she was with him, at least. But he wasn't ready for this. They hadn't really spent much time processing feelings with his father since that story was mentioned because they had been so focused on trial preparation, postponing other things. The defense did not know any details on the man, just the fact of his existence, and there were too many other more-enticing areas for them to use against House, so those had been the areas of concentration in his sessions lately. Even Martin hadn't thought his father would be worth more than maybe one question of the fact, and the prosecutor doubted that much. There were far better options of attack that the defense knew were emotionally loaded for House. Stevenson wouldn't focus on one of the few calm, simple, unelaborated statements in those notes; the whole way it was casually mentioned proclaimed that this area was not one that needed therapeutic attention in the opinion of Blythe's psychiatrist. How could they possibly have tracked his father down from that one sentence? No name, no identifying details at all, and Jensen could not see Blythe tricked out of that. Her contribution to the information they already had had shaken her, and she was painfully careful these days in what she said to others. Her own interviews with the media in the case frenzy had been a study in lack of details.

The defense knew a lot more now about House's father, unfortunately, even if they hadn't before, and there definitely would be attack on that point, probably tomorrow, with no time to prepare for it. Jensen still was annoyed at himself for not realizing the man was sitting there at his table behind their cluster watching. Jensen had been so focused on House just then, as had the rest of them. But with tomorrow's testimony looming, the psychiatrist was pacing himself tonight as he waited, something that Wilson had never seen from him.

Just then, the car turned into the driveway as they paced in unison. Jensen immediately went over and sat down on the couch. "Take it _easy_," he reminded Wilson. "Don't jump on him for details the minute he walks in. He isn't going to be in good shape." Safe bet, no matter what had just happened. Wilson forced himself to sit down, fidgeting a little, and Jensen looked at his watch. A little over two hours since they had left the courtroom. No quick and easy confrontation and conclusion, though he, unlike House, had never thought that was possible. Still, it could have been worse. He hoped. Whatever had happened, there was no way they could have a session tonight about it. House would be running below empty at this point.

Cuddy and House came through the door. House looked tense, in turmoil, and limping very badly. Wilson got up, trying to make it look casual. "The girls are in bed," he reported. "They didn't want to get to sleep, but they were too tired to fight it."

"You might as well just go ahead and ask. You're a lousy poker player, Wilson," House snapped.

Cuddy sighed and offered the Cliff's Notes version before he launched into a report himself just because he didn't feel like giving one. "Well, he wasn't sent by either the defense or Blythe like we thought. He saw the publicity and came to find out the truth, didn't mean to be recognized back there. But he does want back in Greg's life."

"Since he's never _been_ in my life, at least not like he's talking about now, it would be kind of hard to let him _back_ in," House pointed out. He limped down the hall, and they heard the bathroom door shut.

Cuddy dropped her voice, and the other two immediately huddled up. "There are a few things to work through first, though."

"I kind of got that impression," Wilson agreed, but his eyes showed his worry for his friend, even if his words didn't.

"Did you actually manage to have a productive conversation together?" Jensen asked. It sounded like they might have, and that would be better than his worst-case scenario.

"Yes, eventually. I liked the man, and believe me, I wasn't planning to. I was mad at him myself at first. He's a lot like Greg in some ways. John had to have worked this out pretty early on if he didn't know anyway, and he would have been reminded of it all the time. Not that that excuses the SOB. We did talk for a while, but Greg is just about at the limit tonight after that, so be careful." She moved over to the phone. "I need to order a pizza."

Wilson immediately headed for the kitchen, glad for the call to be of service. "I can warm something up. We already ate with the girls."

"No." Cuddy stopped him. "I think a pizza is the best bet here." House wasn't going to feel like eating much anyway. She called for delivery. Down the hall, House came out of the bathroom, but he turned the other way toward the nursery. Cuddy finished the call and went after him, finding him standing halfway between the door and his sleeping daughters, watching them. She came up beside him, and her arm pulled him over tightly against her.

"He wants to see them," he said finally after a few minutes of silence. "Just to walk in and be a grandfather, like nothing ever happened. Instant grandkids, just add water." Cuddy thought he was selling Thomas short on that, but she didn't say so right now. "You think he's right, don't you?" he challenged, his voice intense but soft as he suddenly turned to her.

"I think it's your decision," she replied. "I can't put myself in your shoes here, Greg; I'll never truly know what things were like when you were growing up. I'm not going to judge you from the sidelines." She did have her own opinion, but this wasn't the time to be expressing it, and really, as she'd said, she couldn't know what he should do. Only he had been there.

"But you liked him."

"Yes," she admitted. "I liked him by the end of that. But I _love_ you. This isn't choosing sides, Greg, but if it were, I'll stand with you, whatever you decide." She kissed him.

A small part of the coiled spring in him seemed to relax a little bit by the time they broke apart. "Thanks for coming with me," he said softly. Rachel stirred in her sleep just then, and both of her parents looked that way. "We'd better get out of here," House whispered.

They closed the nursery door securely and walked back to the living room, Cuddy aware again of how much he was limping. Even with Flexeril on board, his leg had officially had it for today. "A little later, let's get in the hot tub," she suggested. He hesitated, debating whether to accept the obvious physical concern, then nodded after a moment.

In the living room, Jensen and Wilson were in conversation about how Daniel was doing. House more or less collapsed into the couch, and Cuddy sat down next to him. "We have more immediate things to talk about," he started. "That defense attorney was listening to everything after court earlier. I thought it didn't matter, because I thought he was behind it, but since he wasn't, we just handed him a whole new line on a silver platter."

Jensen flinched. "I know we did. I should have noticed that myself. But we do _not_ need to develop strategies for court tonight."

"What other time is there?" House protested. "This is all we've got." He was still absolutely wired, even sitting down.

"No," the psychiatrist repeated. "We'll do more harm than good at the moment."

"Easy for _you_ to say," House shot back. "I'm the one who has to be up there on the stand facing him." Cuddy picked up his hand and stroked it gently. He definitely didn't need any more tonight; he was practically a walking commercial for Ativan already.

"Your father noticed that," Wilson remembered suddenly. "He's the one who suggested at the beginning going somewhere more private to talk. The rest of us weren't even paying attention. That's interesting."

"What, that none of you were paying attention?"

"No, that the only two people there who _did_ notice Stevenson listening . . .never mind." The doorbell rang just then, and Wilson jumped up, fishing out his wallet. "That's probably the pizza."

"You ordered pizza?" House looked at Cuddy.

"Wilson, you don't have to pay for our pizza," she protested, but the oncologist was already doing so, complete with tip. He came back and set the box on the coffee table, opening it.

House eyed it. His favorite flavor, at least on half, and it was a large. He didn't feel hungry at all, though. What he still felt, in every inch of him, was rattled. "I already ate," he started, but Cuddy cut him off firmly.

"That does _not_ count. That wasn't a meal, wasn't enough anyway, and it was only under extreme necessity." Jensen and Wilson visibly avoided chasing that enticing rabbit. Cuddy picked up a slice from her own side. "Come on, Greg. I haven't eaten, either." She took a good-sized bite of veggie lovers.

House sighed. Right then, Belle jumped up on the coffee table, on point, nose twitching. "No!" Cuddy said firmly, swinging at her, and the white cat jumped down, moved over to House's ankles, and sat there looking up at him with pointed feline telepathy. House had to grin at her expression.

"You wouldn't want to fall down on your appointed duties as bite-dispenser to the cat," Wilson pointed out.

House took a slice and started working on it, and Belle settled down, curling her tail around and purring in anticipation. "You paid for it," House said to Wilson with his mouth full.

"We really did already eat with the girls."

Jensen pulled out a pocket knife. "I'll split one with you," he suggested to Wilson, taking the smallest slice and cutting it down the middle.

Wilson went to get them drinks, and the room settled down to even munching for a few minutes, House occasionally dropping a tidbit to Belle. This once, Cuddy made no protest. House managed two slices, and when he clearly stopped eating, Wilson stood up reluctantly. "I'd better get home to Sandra and Daniel. I'll see you tomorrow, House." He didn't really want to leave but knew that between the double cops of Jensen and Cuddy, no further details would be discussed tonight anyway.

Jensen came to his feet as Wilson left. "And I need to talk to Melissa and Cathy. I promised I'd call every night." He disappeared into the guest room, and House looked at Cuddy.

"Come on, Greg," she urged. She closed the pizza box and stood up. "Go turn on the hot tub. I'll be in there in a minute, soon as I put the pizza in the fridge." She headed for the kitchen, and House slowly dragged himself to his feet. He had to come up with a strategy for tomorrow at some point, but he was suddenly too tired to think right now. Maybe the hot tub would help.

The hot tub _did_ help with the leg, but it only increased the exhaustion. House was having trouble keeping his eyes open by the time they got out. "Let's go to bed," Cuddy suggested. "Best way to prepare for tomorrow is a good night's sleep." He wasn't quite convinced still, but his annoying body was voting against him.

They ran into Jensen in the hall, just exiting the guest room as they did the main bathroom. The psychiatrist looked more settled for his own time-out; talking to his family, even if of necessity edited, had cleared his head somewhat. "I'm going out for a run," he said, which would not only help him but would remove him from any possible reach of House for talking about tomorrow in case the other man was still tempted.

"We're going on to bed," Cuddy replied. "Here, I'll give you my key so you can let yourself back in." She walked to the living room for her purse and said very softly to Jensen as she fished it out, "He doesn't want to quit yet, but I don't think he's going to have a choice. He's worn out."

"Make sure he takes the meds," Jensen emphasized. If there ever was a night for better rest through chemistry, this was it.

"I will." She handed him the key and then hurried to the master bedroom. House had just finished changing into his loose sleep pants, and he was fishing out meds. Cuddy eyed the selection, trying not to be obvious on it. Vicodin and a full dose on the zolpidem. Good.

"Yes, I'm taking it," he snapped. "No time for nightmares. The daymares at the moment are bad enough."

She touched him silently on the shoulder, not responding to his tone, and after a moment he relaxed a little bit into her touch. By the time she brushed her teeth and got undressed herself, he was already lying down, eyes closed, but his face still looked like a battleground. Cuddy set the alarm, then slid in next to him and switched off the light. "You aren't alone anymore, Greg," she reminded him softly. "Whatever happens today or tomorrow or any of them, you aren't alone anymore." He rolled into her, holding her tightly, fiercely, and she just held him, feeling her shoulder growing damp with his tears, adding a few of her own.

The storm was short-lived by necessity. After the sleeping pill had claimed him and he was totally out, Cuddy moved away, though still keeping one hand on him more for her reassurance than his, and switched on the lamp again. She picked up her cell phone and called.

"Dr. Cuddy?" Patterson sounded wide awake still. Of course, it wasn't nearly as late as it felt to them.

Cuddy took a deep breath. "Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you about today."


	9. Chapter 9

"So what should I do?" Cuddy asked several minutes later. "How can I help him best here?"

"It sounds like you're helping him already," Patterson assured her. "You've let him know that you are there for him - insisted on it, even, which was good under the circumstances. It sounds like you've dealt quite well with a very stressful day."

"I'm just . . . afraid." Even after a month of this, that admission was very difficult for her. "Not only the shock of his father abruptly dropping back into his life, but we've just made it worse for him in court now. He'll probably start cross-examination tomorrow. That defense attorney is going to come after him hard."

"It's okay to be afraid. _He's_ afraid, too, I'm sure. But still, remember that the truth is stronger than lies. And you being there in court, right where he can see you, is the best possible support for him. You also called me tonight, and I'm very impressed with that. You're acknowledging that today was stressful for _you_. That's progress, Dr. Cuddy. I'm proud of you for that."

Cuddy looked over at House again, soundly asleep. She ran her hand along the side of his face lovingly. "I just don't want to make things worse for him again. Not like last month. He's got enough to deal with already."

"And you will be what gets him through it," Patterson emphasized. "You're doing fine, Dr. Cuddy."

Cuddy sighed. "There's his father, too. I can understand why Greg is mad at him after asking him for help and being shut down. I can't imagine what his childhood was like, even knowing details now. But I really felt sorry for his father. He seemed like a nice man, and I can see how he didn't realize what Greg was really saying there. Kids do just rattle off stuff like that, and most of the time, it doesn't mean anything. There were several days when I was growing up that I would have asked somebody else to take me to live with them instead, but it was just a kid's mood; two hours later, I would think something different. His father has also just lost his wife recently, as well as his son years ago. It didn't sound like he has anybody left now. I wish Greg would give him a chance here, for him and for our girls; I think the family connection would help everybody. But I know it's got to be his decision."

"I'm sure Dr. House is still in shock after today. To have that dropped on him in public court after all these years would send anybody reeling. He hasn't slammed the door there; you said he did take the card. At the moment, I'd just give him time and not push on that. It's okay to gently let him know your opinion if he asks you, but otherwise, just be there. I think this does have to be his decision. Even if he does eventually decide to open negotiations with his father, don't push for introducing him to the girls too fast. Let Dr. House set the timetable. It sounds like they have a lot to be dealt with just between the two of them, and that needs to be at least started first."

Cuddy traced House's face with her hand, trying to remove some of the stress lines. "You know, there's one thing I just don't understand."

"Only one?" Patterson's quiet humor helped cut through the tension a bit, and Cuddy smiled in spite of herself.

"Okay, more than one. But this really is strange, I think. Greg had so much anger there tonight. I'm sure part of that was shock, too, like you said, but he was really _mad_ at his father for not seeing what was going on and getting him out of there. I can understand that, but what's weird is that he _doesn't_ have anywhere near that much anger at his mother. And _she_ was there all the time, not just visiting every year or two. How can he be absolutely furious at his father for missing it but not mad at her for the same thing on much more evidence? That doesn't make sense."

Patterson was quiet for a few moments, thinking. Cuddy gave House's hair an apologetic stroke, but they did have permission to discuss each other in confidential sessions, of course. She was sure she came up many times with Jensen. Patterson had actually asked House himself in their first joint session for his permission to be a topic. It _did_ feel good to have somebody objective to talk to, with full privacy attached. Even with her bewilderment about Blythe and much stronger continued worry, she felt better for this little phone chat tonight.

The other woman finally spoke. "I'm not Dr. House's therapist, and I'm sure there are things there that I don't know. He needs to work through that with Dr. Jensen. Michael won't let him dodge out of talking about it; don't worry. Probably he'll wait until after the testimony is over, but it will be addressed. You're right, the contrast with Dr. House's mother is very striking given his attitude with his father. Still, the one thing that immediately jumps out at me is that you told me once Dr. House was basically constantly brainwashed from age three continuing throughout his adult life that it was his responsibility to protect his mother through his silence, that actually her life was in his hands. That was by far the most extended abuse that his father gave him, close to 50 years of it. That would make it very hard for him to reverse that equation, and you do have to reverse it to come up with an opinion that rather than him protecting her, _she_ should have protected _him_. Probably part of his anger at his father is actually anger at his mother that he can't allow himself to assign to her, and all those deeply buried feelings flared up when the alternate target conveniently presented itself today."

Cuddy's head came up as she thought about that. "I'd never quite looked at things that way. You might have a point there."

"Don't mention my opinion on that to him. It's only an educated guess from the sidelines on incomplete information. Do _not_ open that particular can of worms, Dr. Cuddy. Leave that to Michael; he's better trained to deal with it. That is getting into extremely deep water psychiatrically."

"I won't," Cuddy promised. She suddenly surprised herself by yawning.

"I'd better let you go," Patterson said. "You need a good night's sleep yourself. I'll be thinking about you tomorrow and about him, too. Would you call me tomorrow night when you get a chance? I'm curious, too, and Dr. House's father had one thing right. You can't get a totally accurate report through the media."

Cuddy grinned. "I'll do that. It will probably be after he's asleep, though. Good night, Dr. Patterson. And thanks for listening."

"Anytime. Thank you for allowing yourself to call me. Good night, Dr. Cuddy."

Cuddy ended the call and switched off the lamp. Snuggling down against House, holding onto him possessively even if he wasn't aware of it at the moment, she found that sleep came surprisingly quickly.

(H/C)

Thomas Thornton lay in bed in his hotel room, wide awake in spite of his own stressful day. A hot shower after he eventually returned from the park hadn't done much good. At home, he would have gone for a ride; he had a horse boarded at a public stable. A friend had been leasing the mare the past year during his absence, keeping her exercised and dispensing carrots. Thomas knew there were few things as refreshing and soothing and straightening out thoughts as a good ride. Of course, he could have gone running, too, but he hadn't. He'd just stayed there at the picnic table until long after dark, his thoughts his only company, then returned to the hotel.

Greg's anger had startled him at first. He remembered that moment in the courtroom when their eyes had met and Greg's had burst into flames. It wasn't what Thomas had intended, but from there, he'd had no choice but to come forward. Now, after hearing the story of how his son had asked him for help, something that Thomas barely _remembered_ and had obviously totally dismissed at the time, he understood Greg's anger. He even felt that he deserved it.

How could he have missed everything? Even just seeing the boy occasionally, he should have picked up on it. He had also known John, and in retrospect, there were warning signs. They had met in boot camp, and even then, John's rigidity and tightly reined temper had been apparent. John had never wanted to talk about his background or parents, and Thomas had assumed that he was getting away from a bad home life. The military could steady people, impose discipline on volatility, and so it had seemed with John, who quickly focused his energies on the goal of being the best Marine he could.

Still, they had not really been close friends. Not until later, three years after boot camp, when Thomas wound up starting a tour at a base where John was stationed. John was married at this point, proudly mentioning his wife and inviting Thomas home to dinner to meet her after they bumped into each other on the base. There was something about Blythe that didn't quite mesh, and Thomas had never been able to resist a puzzle. Other dinners between the three of them followed, occasional activities out together. When John went off on maneuvers, Blythe stayed behind in their rented house near the base.

One night, Thomas ran into her in a store, and she invited him home for dinner. The change in her attitude at the store struck him strongly and tripped off his curiosity, added incentive for him to accept her invitation. Without John around, she was more spontaneous and seemed happier in many ways, yet sadder in others. He asked a few probing questions, concern slowly overpowering curiosity, and she fairly readily gave in to the unaccustomed sympathetic ear and admitted that her marriage wasn't entirely happy nor what she had expected. John so much wanted a child, and in nearly two years, there hadn't been one. He seemed to grow more frustrated and impatient as the months went on, and she longed to give him the son he spoke of. She was sure that was all that was lacking, and then they would truly be a happy family together. She even admitted, shamefaced, that it was nice to have him gone, to have less tension for the moment in the house, even though she also felt guilty about enjoying her husband's absence. She had broken down crying eventually, wishing that she could change things somehow, and Thomas had moved over to the couch at that point to join her, giving her a sympathetic brotherly hug.

It was Blythe, drunk on the unaccustomed physical tenderness, who had abruptly taken it beyond a sympathetic brotherly hug, although Thomas admitted that he became an active and full participant himself in the whirlpool of sensation sucking them down. Afterward, they both agreed that this had been wrong and could never happen again, and from that day on, by mutual agreement, they never met alone, not allowing any possible chance for a repeat performance. She did ask him not to tell John, to leave it to her to decide if and when, and he had respected that.

Then Blythe turned up pregnant immediately after John's return. Thomas, doing some mental math, suspected but said nothing, because for the next months, Blythe and John both were truly happy. John actually doted on his wife, more physically demonstrative than Thomas had ever seen him, keeping one hand on her arm, opening doors for her. On her part, Blythe was absolutely glowing. It was in those months that Thomas had made the decision that whatever the truth might be, this would be John's son. He would never even raise the question himself.

Their pride had continued when Greg was born, John passing out cigars around base and proudly predicting his son's future career in the Corps. Thomas offered congratulations, retreated to the sidelines, and watched. By the time Greg was one, his suspicions were growing, although John still adored his son. Thomas was transferred out, and Blythe sent him a letter and a picture the next year from Greg's second birthday party. She stated that she herself was sure this was Thomas' boy by now but thanked him for his silence, as John was so proud of him. Looking at the picture, Thomas had no remaining doubts himself. He had met his own wife shortly after that, and his own happiness, shortly followed by his own son, had completed his life. He thought often of Greg, even talked about him with his wife. He had actually told her about Greg before he proposed, refusing to drop that on her after she had already agreed, leaving her room to back out gracefully. But he always stayed at a distance, even when he visited. Greg was John's son.

Over the years, he had kept in touch, visiting every few years when he had a casual chance. He was aware of the growing tension between father and son over the years, but there was no question that Greg was a strong-willed boy with a sharp tongue on him, and John the Marine as disciplinarian was bound to take this as a personal challenge. Yes, in retrospect, there had been injuries. But Blythe, John, and Greg himself all had stated that he was just clumsy, and the boy was growing in odd phases, as Thomas himself had.

Greg had moved out shortly after graduation, and Thomas saw him only once again before the funeral. That had been after Greg's infarction, when Blythe contacted him saying that there was a chance Greg might die and then later that he would live but be disabled permanently. Thomas had come to Princeton on a day after he knew Blythe and John had returned home. He had no intentions of playing prodigal father then, just wanted to see him for a moment, even if from a distance. Preferably from a distance. Greg had been asleep, the room oddly empty - didn't he have a girlfriend? Thomas tentatively had crept into the room and stood there looking at his son, openly studying him for the first time in many years, seeing the lines of stress and pain and illness. When Greg started to wake up, Thomas quietly withdrew, not wanting to prompt questions as to why his father's old friend was here. Other than John's funeral, Thomas hadn't seen him again until court today, had only followed his life proudly through reports from Blythe (who sent him regular letters, though she asked him never to write back, as John might get suspicious) and online up until his wife's illness consumed all of his energy and attention. Even at John's funeral, Emily had been unwell already, and Blythe herself had noticed it.

He had missed everything with Greg. He had missed all of it for years, not only his son's plea but his son's pain. As he'd said, he had no excuse for that.

And now Greg was married, obviously happily. His wife was a firecracker, raising still-painful memories of Thomas' own wife. And Greg had two girls. His granddaughters. Greg finally had a good life, no thanks to his biological father.

Thomas sat up in bed, giving up efforts to sleep and switching on the light. Getting his wallet from the nightstand, he pulled out three pictures he always carried with him.

Himself and his other son, Greg's brother. Both on horseback, smiling and happy.

Thomas and his wife at their 30th wedding anniversary, the connection just as passionate and strong, stronger even, after all those years, the bond between them visible in the shot. He swallowed the lump in his throat. How he longed to talk to her about today.

After a long pause, he flipped to the final picture. Greg's second birthday, the picture that for him had given the certain verdict. No jury deliberation needed here. The ruling was in. Greg was sitting in a high chair, impatiently eying a chocolate cake, with a pile of presents on the table in front of him. John was next to him, bending over and pointing toward Blythe, who was taking the picture, clear pride on his face. The two faces were tellingly side by side, alleged father and son. Greg looked happy. According to his testimony, this would have been a year before the hammer fell.

Thomas let the pictures fall, tears streaming down his cheeks. He left the light on as he lay back down, but the bed was still lonely and empty, and the tide of memories and regrets was still surging. Sleep was a long time coming.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, folks. Here's a Saturday update. Next chapter, we get back on the stand.

Must say, now that you know the flip side of it, that I have loved the title of this story from the beginning. Sometimes a story comes with a title attached from the initial idea, as this one did. Sometimes the title joins the playing field later in the process. But this one, with trial and deliberation of evidence going on with more than just Patrick, really seemed to fit.

I do think there is another Pranks story two up after this one, but it's still very preliminary and forming. There is definitely a story right after this one, and that's another little surprise for you. It's a one shot but going somewhere _completely_ different. :)

I also recommend Rikki Tikki Tavi, the classic version narrated by Orson Welles. And, of course, the story by Kipling from which the film came.

Enjoy chapter 10. To prison!

(H/C)

Wednesday morning started out busy from the beginning and hurtled on down the track from there. House meant to nail Jensen down immediately and have a court strategy discussion, working out what the defense attorney was likely to do with this new line. However, Abby and Rachel woke up about the same time he did, very early for them. They were delighted to see their parents after last night's absence and were very demanding of his full attention. It was hard enough just managing to take a shower. A serious conversation with Jensen would have been impossible with them not only present but demanding center stage. Instead, he spent time talking to them, asking about their day yesterday, playing the piano some (not having a lesson session with either, though).

They even watched a 30-minute animated movie, Rikki Tikki Tavi, and as House sat on the couch, both girls and the cat on top of him, and saw the mongoose battling the two cobras, intelligent strategy and tactics combined with just a knock-down, drag-out fight to the death, he couldn't help thinking of court. Stevenson and Patrick, like two cobras, waited for him today. Had to deal with Stevenson and still stay on the offensive against Patrick, who was after all the one on trial. Or maybe his father was a cobra. If so, House had to remember that the fiercer cobra was the second one, as Rikki said, "worse than five" of the other. _That _had to be his focus; he would not think about his father, other than as a weapon handed to Stevenson to use. It was a line of questioning, no further importance carried, not today, at least. In court, he could _not_ get distracted again. He shouldn't have yesterday. Had to focus.

Cuddy and Jensen watched his face during the movie, which he didn't even notice to get annoyed at, a strong-enough statement of his state of mind. His thoughts written there were fairly easy to read. Jensen wished that they had had a few minutes to talk about court today rather than letting House stew on it alone, but he also could tell that House was determinedly shoving away the whole separate issue of his father. In a way, he was correct; Patrick _did_ have to be his focus while on the stand. But the psychiatrist didn't think House would be much more inclined to talk about his father even after his testimony was over, and Jensen was going to have to push it there and insist. House couldn't avoid his feelings about the new situation with the man abruptly back in his life, even if he tried to deflect talking through it, and he didn't need to be thinking and obsessing over this privately.

There was also the anger, the absolute rage that had been in him, something he had never shown in sessions. Even when he thought Jensen had given his information to Patrick, it hadn't been close to that level. That had been an immediate, uncontrolled, obviously subconscious reaction the instant he saw the other man. The limited times they had mentioned his biological father in sessions, even when talking about his plea for help at age 6, he hadn't responded like that. This was obviously something new, something previously deeply buried blazing up now in full flame from his subconscious. Jensen knew the self-destructive power of anger. That, too, needed to be discussed once his testimony was over, and the psychiatrist thought that House would be even more resistant talking about his anger than he would about his father in general. Dodging talking about his father's return would be deliberate; dodging talking about his anger would be a desperate subconscious protective measure. Definitely a tough session on the horizon.

But first the remainder of his testimony. That temporarily had to take priority.

Martin called about 6:30, just as the movie was ending. House had to admire the man's restraint; in the prosecutor's shoes, he probably would have called last night. Their conversation was brief, and House pocketed his cell phone and looked up to find Cuddy and Jensen both clearly waiting for a report. "I've been summoned to the principal's office 30 minutes before court starts." He sighed. "Can't blame him."

"He just wants to talk about strategies, Greg. That's good; you want to do that yourself." Well, Cuddy knew that Martin also wanted to get a reading on his witness's frame of mind and stability today before facing him in open court so he'd know what he had to deal with. But no point in saying that to House.

"Yeah, right. He also wants to make sure I'm not going to get distracted on minor things again. I can hear it now: Pay attention. Got it." He moved the girls over apologetically and heaved himself to his feet as Marina arrived. Cuddy and Jensen exchanged a private look. _Did he just call having his biological father abruptly reenter his life after decades a minor thing?_

Marina was openly curious, though hiding it in front of the girls, who were still immediately underfoot. Another round of lucky cereal was served, although Cuddy did, to Marina's disapproval, heat up a slice of leftover pizza for House as well, saying he could have that if he ate the cereal, too. Rachel had missed the arrival of the pizza and now immediately demanded pizza for breakfast herself instead of cereal. Marina dug in there; one small bite for each girl, and that was it. Belle presented underneath House's chair, and he dropped a pepperoni and then finished the slice off himself.

Leaving was traumatic. Rachel threw a full-scale fit worthy of Cathy, insisting on going with him today. Abby was softer but wouldn't let him go, and it took the other adults physically to restrain the two girls long enough to let House, with repeated promises that he _would_ see them tonight, escape through the front door.

Out in the driveway, House folded himself stiffly into the car as the other two easily caught up with him. He let out a deep breath, and Cuddy looked over at him as she took the wheel. "Just think, Greg, Stevenson probably has nothing compared to Rachel. So the worst battle of today is over already."

He gave a weak grin. "Love to see that match-up. My money would be on Rachel." He twisted to look into the back seat at Jensen, flinching slightly as the movement tweaked his leg. "We have _got_ to run over strategies for today. This changes things with the defense."

Jensen didn't dodge the topic this time, nor did he push to expand it. "Martin will have some valuable input there. I was thinking, though. I really don't think it changes things too much. Stevenson had _no_ details from those notes, no name, no data, nothing. Even hearing that confrontation last night, he only has what we handed him."

"You mean what _I_ handed him," House challenged.

"No, I meant _we_. Every one of us, me included, contributed to that scene. We should have noticed Stevenson listening. I should never have said what I did in front of him, that you don't need to do this right now, because he knows I'm your psychiatrist; Patrick would have expected me to come, and Patrick after the first hearing knows exactly who I am. From me, Stevenson took that as a therapeutic analysis, as a sort of mini session, not just as a friend's objection. It was actually James and not you yourself who publicly identified your father. Dr. Cuddy threw a needed fit there to go along but also gave the defense direct confirmation that you've always, until recently, felt alone. Even Martin wasn't paying attention to the audience and expressed concern for the case. _All_ of us made mistakes last night."

"Except . . ." Cuddy started thoughtfully, then trailed off, trying too late to block the thought.

House turned to her quickly enough that he pulled his leg again. "So you don't think turning up like the prodigal father in open court after decades of staying away was a mistake?"

"That's not what I meant, Greg. I just meant that he was trying to be discreet and go somewhere private to talk. Yes, I do think turning up abruptly in court was a mistake, but he didn't think you'd see him in back, and he didn't have time to set up anything else. He only realized what was going on last week."

"He's good at missing things," House snapped and then visibly wrenched himself back to the topic of court half a second before Jensen did. "But back to court, which is where we're about to be. So granted we all screwed up last night. How is that not as bad as I think?"

"Even with what we gave him," the psychiatrist said, "the details are very limited. He knows that you are mad at your biological father. He does _not_ know the reason for that; he can only guess." Jensen wasn't convinced that House himself understood the reason for it, but that was a conversation for another day. "He knows that you don't think you ever had a real father, but approaching that topic is also very dangerous ground for his case, because the jury would sympathize strongly with your statement there. Remember, sympathy is _not_ pity. He also knows that I think there is more going on there but has no idea what. He knows that you've always been alone, but really, that was a reasonable extension from your background. His new information is very limited."

House nodded after a moment as he analyzed that scene in retrospect. Jensen continued.

"So he's going to be trying to add more details, trying to fish. Lawyers only do that as a last resort. They usually try to avoid asking questions on the stand to which they don't know the answer; it's a desperation strategy. That throws the ball straight back to you. He _only_ has what we've already given him, and it really is just a tiny fraction of the story. As long as you don't give him more, he's stuck. You can frustrate the hell out of him by just briefly agreeing with what he knows and not letting him take it anywhere beyond that. The more he pushes with nothing gained, the more he hurts himself and Patrick with the jury."

House tilted his head, considering that, and Cuddy focused on her driving and firmly kept her mouth shut. _Mental note to self, Lisa: Be careful making any positive statement about his father, even an innocent one. That topic is way too charged at the moment. Only bring him up if asked; let Jensen deal with it. Thank God for Jensen._

"You still have more control of things today than you think," Jensen emphasized. "And it is a marvelous opportunity to annoy him."

"Yeah, glad this all came up," House muttered, but he was appreciating the thought.

"You also have Martin, not to mention the judge. There are limits and rules on how far he can push. And he doesn't get the chance to talk to me, or Dr. Cuddy, or Dr. Wilson. He's stuck guessing at the whole back story while questioning you, because he _does not_ have it."

House was thoughtful for the rest of the drive to court, still tense but a little more directed, at least. Martin was waiting for them in the courthouse lobby, the place already filling up rapidly. Wilson wasn't here yet; they were 30 minutes ahead of their advertised schedule. House resisted the temptation to look around for Thomas Thornton. Martin led the three of them to his office, which was down a quieter hall a little away from the circus. The prosecutor offered coffee all around, and he already had an open package of doughnuts sitting out on his desk. Bribery, House thought, but he stuffed down a chocolate one quickly as Martin was getting everyone settled. The prosecutor was practically oozing routine, steady control, obviously a rehearsed performance.

Martin finally took his seat behind his desk. He had been studying House surreptitiously from the lobby on, and he was reassured. The man at least did look like he had slept, and while he was tense, he was hardly distracted right now. Martin had heard from Andrews and seen himself how compartmentalized House could be. He hoped he would be today. "About yesterday," he started. "I realize that was a great shock to you. For today, just don't look out at the crowd or the media either. Only at me and your family in the front row."

"He's not going to be here today," House stated. "Well, actually, he is, but I told him to go to the overflow room so I wouldn't have to look at him. So he won't be out there today. It's not an issue."

"Even so, try not to look past that first row. Stevenson heard all that." House gave a short nod, confirming that he already knew this. "I wouldn't put it past Stevenson to try to plant people who look similar to people from your past; it's one thing I thought of last night that he might come up with fairly quickly if he tried. Since he saw you get distracted on the stand, he might try to repeat that. If somebody very similar to John House shows up, you don't need to notice him."

House shook his head. "They haven't got a picture of him. That was how the PI got caught, remember?"

"He was a well-decorated Marine. I found one shot myself online last night from the obituary."

House flinched but then steadied. "Even if they found somebody who looked like him physically, I doubt it would look like _him_. Remember, nobody until Patrick has physically reminded me of him, and they don't really look alike at all. He wasn't just a case of hair and eyes like this. But I get the point. Don't watch the crowd."

"About Stevenson, he's going to be trying to push you, trying to find out more. He still doesn't know much. Just remember, he only knows what you tell him. Calmly answer the questions and go on. The judge will call him out if he keeps hammering on the same question once you have given a response. This morning, we're going to start out with a little bit of review, just to remind the jury of details. They've had the night off." Also to give them a better picture of House testifying to this than the last one he had left them with. "Then we'll finish up your background and get into the real heart of the case, your testimony against Chandler. I'll try not to prolong it, but we really do have a lot to get through, and Stevenson can object. If it's getting to the point where I think we'll be finishing mid afternoon or later, I will slow down and drag things out a little more to stay with direct until the judge dismisses. I do think it will probably be today, but just in case things take longer than expected, I won't let you start cross late in the afternoon."

Martin paused for a swallow of his coffee, then continued. "One other thing. You were getting pretty tired yesterday afternoon, even before your biological father showed up."

"It had been a hell of a day already, even without him," House pointed out, immediately getting defensive.

"I know, and I understand. There are genuine reasons for it; it's not a weakness. I just wanted to say, Stevenson noticed that, too. He will try to use that. He will deliberately try to take advantage of it and hammer away even harder late in the day. You have the breaks every hour; use them. If you really get to the point where you have nothing at all left, let me know, and I'll ask - _privately_ - if we can dismiss and pick it back up tomorrow. No other witness has to deal with chronic pain as well as testifying. The judge knows about your physical issues. He would understand."

House sighed. "Sounds like _everybody_ knows about my physical issues. So Stevenson brought up my leg cross examining Cranston?"

Cuddy straightened up, not having realized this. Martin gave House a friendly smile. "Yes, he did, but believe me, that backfired. He was trying to minimize the effects of it and say that you didn't really need painkillers and were just an addict. Cranston was absolutely unshakable there. The physical evidence from that scan is undeniable. Stevenson wound up losing points with the jury by going after that so hard, and he didn't get anything in return." Martin had actually asked Cranston to be prepared on that point; he had thought House's leg might come up. But there had been no point in telling House that before the fact. "Nobody in the room was sympathetic to him by the end of that line except for Chandler." Martin looked at his watch and stood up. "Let's go; the judge will be in soon. Just look at me and Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House, and remember, Stevenson has nothing more unless you give it to him. Don't let him rattle you."

They walked back out down the hall to the lobby. The crowd was thinning now, getting settled, and Wilson was twirling like an agitated top, pacing rapid circles in front of the main door. "Where the hell have you _been_?" he burst out as he finally saw his friend.

"Talking," House said. "They aren't going to start court without me anyway, so what's the fuss?" He headed for the main courtroom, and Wilson fell into line. Jensen put a hand on the oncologist's arm, a silent but firm message.

The courtroom was once again at capacity. House didn't look at the media or the crowd and just walked down to the front row. Wilson, Jensen, and Cuddy slipped in, and she gave a final squeeze to his hand, tracing the two rings on his finger, a silent affirmation. House took another few steps forward past the railing to the prosecutor's table, where Martin was just getting settled. At that moment, Stevenson stood up and walked over, stopping directly by House, although his soft words were addressed to the prosecutor. "Martin, if you want to have another private conversation right in front of me today, just let me know. I won't even object to a recess." With a friendly, fake smile, he nodded to his opponent and returned to the defense table.

House gritted his teeth, his eyes glittering, and Martin spoke very softly. "Don't let him get to you. He's desperate. It just shows how few actual facts they have on their side."

At that moment, the side door opened, and Patrick entered with his guard, followed by the bailiff. "All rise," the bailiff announced.

The courtroom came to its feet, and the judge entered. "Be seated. Court is now in session in the case of the People vs. Patrick Chandler."

House took another deep breath and looked down at the double rings on his finger. He walked forward and reentered the stand, and the long day in court began.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Hi, readers. I'm back after a horrible week - ISP crashed on Monday afternoon due to a stupid error on the part of their people, not just some computer or electronic whim but an actual person entering wrong data that easily could have been seen to be wrong if they had looked, and the system, being erroneously on fraud lockdown, had to be recalibrated in person, first service call available Friday afternoon. Thus I lost pretty much the entire week of work and am now 35 hours behind. And yes, I am going to war with them over that. They owe me something on that; it was absolutely their own clerical mistake that simple checking of a few obvious things would have avoided.

I did get two chapters written down during this offline hiatus when I wasn't working outside and putting in the garden, but that will probably be all you get for a while, because I have to be knocking myself out trying to reclaim my lost 35 hours as well as the scheduled hours before pay period ends on the 15th. Mom's birthday is also in there, plus I also will be out of town the weekend of the 14th on a mini vacation, and I refuse to cancel that trip, for which I've had tickets four months. So two chapters, then a short pause. Sorry (insert image of House and Cuddy kissing). Leaving you where I'm going to leave you was not how I meant to do it. I will post the two chapters I already have written down separated by a few days. For one, it cuts your gap time slightly, and for another, people tend to review in bulk if authors post in bulk, and after this incredibly frustrating week, I'm not willing to take half price in reviews for the chapters. So this chapter, one more in a few days, and then probably nothing more until at least after the weekend of the 14th.

(H/C)

House took the stand after being reminded that he was still under oath. He faced Martin steadily, determined to focus today. Martin started off, as he'd predicted, with review. "Dr. House, before we adjourned yesterday, you were telling us about some specific incidents with your father during your childhood. Let's go back to the stairs. You said he pushed you down the stairs and broke your arm?"

"Yes," House said. He still hated the necessity of this, but his tone was fairly steady.

Stevenson hit his feet, entering the day's fray early. "Objection. That question had already been answered; my opponent is just repeating it for emphasis on the jury. It isn't time for closing arguments yet."

"I was heading in a different direction with it," Martin said.

The judge looked from one to the other of them. "Overruled for the moment," he stated, with a subliminal message to Martin that he had better not merely be wasting the court's time.

"What did he say when he pushed you, Dr. House?" the prosecutor continued.

"I was telling him I was sorry, and he said that the word didn't mean anything."

"What _exactly_ were his words?" Martin asked, pushing a little bit.

House looked to Cuddy and then back. "Words don't make any difference. I'll prove it. I'm sorry, Greg."

Martin gave that a moment to soak in. This was good. House was very resolute today, with him again, even when Martin pushed him a little, and his voice wasn't emotionless but was in control of the memories. He had the jury's full attention just now. Fortunately for today's purposes, House was very good at taking blows that would normally leave a person reeling, recovering quickly, compartmentalizing it, and pressing on. Which, Martin thought sadly, was proof of how much practice at that had been forced upon him in life. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "Since then, you have understandably hated the phrase 'I'm sorry,' haven't you?"

"All my life," House agreed.

"Did that phrase actually give you flashbacks?"

"Not usually. Not unless it was repeated over and over under a very stressful situation." House paused, thinking of Blythe, and when his eyes went to Wilson, the oncologist was looking guilty, obviously on the same memory. "But it would . . . _grate_ on me. I avoided saying it myself if at all possible."

Wilson's expression changed there, remembering the time that House had, in those words and actually in tears, apologized to him after delivering Amber's death sentence. The oncologist was immediately startled from there by the rare thought of Amber. He suddenly realized that he hadn't thought of Amber, not of being with her and reliving his feelings for her, in months. Nor of his ex-wives. Even when he had thought of leaving last month before realizing it was a mistake, he was focused now on Sandra and Daniel and wasn't comparing, though if he had, this one would have rated better. All his previous relationships had had comparisons of how they made him feel running in the background. Jensen elbowed him in the ribs, and Wilson focused. Martin was in his next question.

"And again, this is made clear in your mother's therapy notes which were stolen. We've already heard from Dr. Andrews, but in your own words, was Andrews attempting to use that phrase in conversation with you after the theft of those notes?"

"Yes. Deliberately and with emphasis, and it annoyed him that I acted like it didn't mean anything."

"You _acted_ like it didn't mean anything. But the memories were still there when he said it?"

"Yes. It would always remind me." He looked back at Jensen and Cuddy. "But it's getting better as I've been working on it, especially in the last several months. Not nearly as strong as it used to be." That was thrown in both as a point toward Stevenson that it wouldn't be easy to trip House into a flashback on the stand once they got to cross and also as an effort to the jury and media to see him as something less than a powerless victim. There _was_ progress, damn it. Jensen gave him a smile and nodded.

"And similarly, would the word ice remind you of your father's actions with ice baths?"

"Yes. But again, the word itself wouldn't do anything more than remind me."

Martin headed for new ground, convinced that they were back on track. "Moving on to another episode. This one is mentioned in great detail several places in the therapy notes, your honor. Page 4 is one of them. This is actually the most detailed episode of abuse covered in these stolen notes." He paused to let the judge and jury flip over to that page. "Tell us about the carpet glue, Dr. House." He had deliberately been trying to put off getting into this one, the most extended and vivid single incident of physical abuse, yesterday afternoon when House had been exhausted and then furious.

House launched into one of the worst days of his childhood, trying not to look at the crowd or those red-eyed cameras. "One day when I was six years old. . ." He tripped abruptly, stopping briefly, and Cuddy straightened up with sudden, horrified insight. Had it been _then_, right after _that_ episode that House had made his desperate, shielded plea to Thomas Thornton to get him out of there? Jensen touched her arm lightly, reminding her not to react in front of her husband right now, and she forced herself to relax. House wasn't looking at her at that moment, fortunately. He wasn't looking at anything. Martin gave him a few seconds, and he refocused without prompting after the slight pause.

"I was walking across the living room carrying a glass of red juice. My ankle was sore because he had tried to twist it off a few days earlier." House hit that minor, routine detail without reacting, going on smoothly with his narrative, but Martin could feel the jury's reaction. The fact that it clearly _was_ a minor, routine detail to House said far more than scripted testimony ever could have. "And I tripped and spilled the juice. It made a big splash across the middle of the carpet. I was afraid that Dad . . . that _John_ would go after me right there, even in front of her, or take me out back to the shed right then, but he didn't seem mad. He just said that the carpet was old anyway, and he'd replace it the next day. He didn't even have his private plans look he'd give me in public so many times. I thought maybe for once I had gotten away with a mistake without being beaten for it." That statement again was made matter-of-factly, but the whole courtroom again responded with a wave of sympathy. House felt it that time and looked at Cuddy, and she gave him a proud smile. _It's not pity, damn it, Greg._

"The next day, John sent my mother off somewhere all day, and he replaced the carpet." Cuddy looked over at Jensen as she noted that House had suddenly switched terms for his stepfather. That was new just now. He had always called John Dad, though the title certainly had none of the usual affection behind it. Of course, that, too, had been drilled into him, because John had always insisted that he refer to him as Dad in front of others, keeping up the normal, happy family illusion. Jensen was looking at him, and there was a gleam of pride and approval in the psychiatrist's dark eyes.

"He replaced the carpet in the living room, and then he . . ." House hesitated, looking back at Cuddy. He was tensing up now, but that was understandable. She tried to give him all the strength and pride that she felt through her eyes. "He made me lie down on the floor, and he took one of the leftover pieces of carpet and nailed it across my chest and my arms, pinning me down. He didn't drive the nails into me, but he acted like he was going to, straight into the heart." House shuddered visibly. "I wished he would, because it would have been _over_ then." He took a moment. The loud silence echoed around the courtroom. "He left me there, said that he might never come back and that no one would ever notice me. I was there for seven hours, and all I could smell was the carpet glue, and I was fighting to breathe anyway. It was too tight. John finally came back, and before he let me up, he marched across me in his combat boots." House trailed off into silence, his eyes on Cuddy. He was breathing a little faster, but he was still firmly in the present.

Martin gave him a few moments there, letting him recover and letting the impact soak in fully with the jury. "Thank you for telling us that," he said finally. "Obviously, the smell of carpet glue has had a strong effect on you since then, hasn't it?"

"Yes," House agreed, relieved to give a short answer.

"It describes in the therapy notes that this is one of the strongest flashback triggers for you. Is that true?"

"It _was_. We're working on things; I'm getting better." House straightened up with a bit of pride himself there.

"Dr. Andrews has testified how Patrick Chandler told him to dump carpet glue in your office. What happened that morning at the hospital, Dr. House?"

"I arrived, and one of my fellows came out of the conference room and warned me about the glue while I was still in the hallway."

"How did he know the glue bothered you?"

"There was one occasion a few years ago where the carpet in my office was replaced overnight without any warning to me." Cuddy flinched guiltily. "I walked in that morning and noticed the glue, and I walked back out quickly and refused to go in until after the old carpet was put back and there was no difference at all from how the room used to be. The team thought I was just being an eccentric jerk and resisting change and that that's why I didn't want to go in. I was _trying_ to make them think I was just an eccentric jerk. They never knew the real reason, but I think that after the papers were spread around the hospital, when he ran into the glue that morning, Foreman remembered the other time and wondered if that smell was tied to something from my past. So he warned me in advance. I never went in the office."

"Do you think this was an attempt to knock you into a public flashback at the hospital?"

"Definitely."

"Now tell us what happened at the evidentiary hearing late last year."

"When it came down to cross-examination of me, Patrick's lawyer reached into his pocket and was fiddling with something as he first stood up to come question me. He had a small vial of carpet glue in his pocket, and he clearly uncapped it then. Throughout that cross-examination, he was trying to stand as close as he could to me, making sure I smelled it."

"So you think that was a deliberate attempt to influence your testimony unfairly, to make you break down on the stand?"

"Yes."

"Did it work?" Martin asked.

House touched the two rings and looked back at Cuddy. "No. It was bothering me quite a bit, but the work I'd been doing to overcome the memory helped." It nearly had worked, but he wasn't about to tell that to the jury. Things had been stopped just in time.

"What happened then?"

"I was trying to fight through it alone, but finally, I told the judge. He had the bailiff search Bartle, and they found the carpet glue."

"Were you watching Chandler during that cross-examination?"

"Occasionally, yes."

"What was his expression, in your opinion?"

"Expectant. He was watching me very closely, like he was waiting for something. That was very different than his attitude when I was on direct, when he just had that fake bewildered look."

Stevenson hit his feet again. "Objection."

"Sustained," the judge agreed. "Speak about your own observations, Dr. House. Don't speculate from there on other people's qualities."

Martin tried to phrase it carefully to make his point, hoping that House wouldn't give into temptation again. It was just a brief lapse, an understandable one given how much Chandler had put him through, but he didn't need to make statements like that in court. "In your opinion, Dr. House, based on your observations, do you think Chandler knew about his lawyer's actions?"

"Absolutely," House replied, getting the answer in quickly half a second before Stevenson hit his feet again.

"That calls for speculation again on the part of the witness, your honor."

The judge considered it for a moment. "Overruled. That question was fair, and the answer stands. Of course, it is simply Dr. House's opinion, but it was phrased as such."

Martin relaxed a bit. Bartle's initial statement blaming Patrick had been introduced under strong objection by Stevenson earlier in the trial, as Bartle himself was not available to testify, but the jury had been reminded that Bartle had been facing his own charges at the time and that his statement should not be given much weight independent of other proof. They had had a brief statement from the judge at the hearing with his own impressions after that, and Stevenson had wisely gone for very little on cross, only emphasizing that these impressions were just the judge's opinion and had never been confirmed by Patrick. Stevenson knew better than really to go after a judge on cross; nobody has more practice with lawyer tactics. House's confirmation was very important here, even if just as another opinion. Martin knew that Patrick's defense was a combination of psychiatric evidence supporting his own position and evidence about Bartle discovered after his death that Bartle was a "do anything to win, legal or not" lawyer and might thus have come up with the carpet glue scheme alone to put another notch in his gun winning this high-profile case. Stevenson could also suggest that one of Patrick's other personalities might have done it, the same as the Christopher defense.

"Dr. House, going back to your . . . John House's actions, have your memories of childhood ever interfered with performance of your job?" Martin, Cuddy noted, had also picked up on the change in form of address.

"No," House said definitely. "They haven't."

"In your opinion, are you an objective doctor?"

"Yes. I have to be, hunting as many odd diseases as I see. When you close your mind to part of the evidence or fixate on only a few symptoms, you risk missing very important details. It could mean the difference in a patient's life. I have to approach a new case looking at all the data, even if it doesn't fit a theory. I even discard any previous doctor's opinions to avoid contaminating my differential, and I usually repeat their tests myself."

The judge glanced at his watch. "Court will take a 30-minute recess." He stood and exited.

"30 minutes?" Stevenson's surprised comment was audible, though soft. Martin smiled to himself. Nice timing as they were about to get into the events with Chandler and Christopher, and the judge also wanted to give House a good break after the very charged testimony so far. He was a strict judge but also very fair, and as he had said, making accommodations for witnesses with valid reasons for them was not prejudicial.

House stood up a little stiffly. His muscular tension during that stretch had been greater than he realized, and he wondered if the judge had been aware of it. Much of the courtroom was stirring, people stretching their legs or moving out to the restrooms or the water fountain. The media bolted out to their remote trucks to broadcast a quick update. House limped carefully down the couple of steps from the stand. Martin came across to meet him. "Very well done. Except for the fake bewildered look."

House grinned in apology. "Couldn't resist that, especially with him sitting right there wearing the same look. Don't worry; I'll be good from now on."

Cuddy came up at that point and put a hand on his arm. "I'm proud of you, Greg." The words soaked into him like sunshine.

"There are still a few chocolate doughnuts in my office," Martin said.

"I need to walk for a few minutes," House admitted.

"More room down the halls of offices. It's quieter there, too," Martin pointed out. After a moment, House nodded. He and his cheering squad of three fell in behind the prosecutor as they left the courtroom.

It _was_ quieter down the halls of offices, removed from the bustle of the main lobby, though House noted that nobody while they were in the crowd bothered him. He stuffed down another doughnut and walked back and forth down the hall, the straightway helping his leg a little more than the enforced circles from yesterday between the counsel tables and the judge's bench. Cuddy walked along with him. Jensen and Wilson did not, chitchatting with Martin in the door of his office. They were clearly trying not to smother House and give him a breather. Cuddy didn't insist on conversation, but her quiet presence spoke volumes, as did the way she matched her pace to his without obviously seeming to slow down.

"Ten minutes," Martin said after several minutes. "From here, we get into Christopher."

House nodded and looked at his watch. He gulped down the last of the paper cup of water Martin had given him, and then started limping back down the hall. "I'm going to make a quick trip through the bathroom." Wilson peeled off immediately and joined him.

Jensen and Martin both turned the other way as they reached the end of the hall. No point in getting House annoyed by a triple escort to the facilities. "We'll see you in court," Martin called. House nodded. Cuddy hesitated, then joined the line at the water fountain, staying near the restroom doors.

The crowd was steadily streaming back into the courtroom, afraid to be late, and the restrooms were not as crowded as they had been several minutes earlier. House wound up standing next to Lucas at the urinal on his left, and he gave a quick glance around. The restroom was emptying out. "Lucas," he said softly. He fished out a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over. "Here's something to keep you busy after hours when court isn't in session. Full background check, any other interesting-looking stuff you find. Just poke around a little and see if anything jumps out at you. He lives in St. Louis, but he's not at home right now; he's staying at the Ramada if you want a look in person. He might have heard you testify, so don't let him see you."

Lucas eyed the data, and Wilson pushed around to see it, too. Thomas Thornton, address and phone provided. He didn't get much of a look as Lucas quickly removed the paper from his line of sight and pocketed it. "You want me to skip court for it?" Lucas had missed the scene after court yesterday evening, had in fact left quickly after adjournment because he figured House would have enough people closing in on him just then to annoy him already. He had no idea what this was about, but with House, you never knew.

"Nah. He's not that important. Wouldn't want to deprive you of your front-row seat to the demise of Patrick. I want something by the end of the weekend, though." Lucas nodded and exited.

Wilson turned to House. "Thomas Thornton? That's your father's name?"

"No. I told you yesterday, he's just the sperm donor."

"You're hiring a PI to dig up information on your father? You could, you know, just talk to him. That's how most people get to know each other."

House tensed up, getting defensive. "Wilson, he has been cyber and otherwise stalking me from a distance without stepping forward for over 50 years. There is _nothing _wrong with me collecting a little data on the side for myself. He's miles ahead of me in that department. And now and for the rest of this lifetime, _drop it._" Truly, it was no more than Thomas deserved, House thought. High time the other man had _his_ closets inspected for skeletons for once, a nice distraction from the world being invited to do a differential on House's skeletons which Thomas had helped put in there. What was a trial without evidence, after all?

House limped out of the restroom, and Wilson followed, feeling guilty. Probably should have stifled his first shocked comment. Still, House had had the opportunity for many of those same 50 years himself and had ignored it. Hadn't he had _any_ curiosity about his biological father before the man turned up in court?

Cuddy was waiting by the water fountain, and she reached out and took his arm, noting the fresh tension in him. "Let's go testify, Greg," she said, not asking the reason for his mood, although she did toss a pointed glare at Wilson.

House relaxed somewhat again on one priceless word: _Let's_. He wasn't in this alone. "Okay," he said, but his hand gave hers a subtle squeeze as they walked back into the courtroom.


	12. Chapter 12

House limped on up to the stand and sat, looking down at the rings and fingering the two of them. Martin walked up to the stand and spoke softly to him. The judge wasn't back yet, though due any moment. While House was in a mini conversation with the prosecutor, Cuddy leaned across Jensen and hauled Wilson physically over for a quick flaying underneath the psychiatrist's nose. "_What_ did you say to him in the bathroom?" she whispered. Nobody else other than Jensen could have heard, but the claws were unsheathed beneath her tone.

"He was -" Wilson started to protest softly, then suddenly stopped, realizing that if Cuddy didn't know House's intentions, it probably wasn't the oncologist's place to share them.

Cuddy's fingers dug painfully into his arm. "I don't _care_ what he was doing. What did _you_ say?"

Wilson looked quickly at Jensen in appeal, but the psychiatrist looked curious himself and wasn't about to step in with Cuddy. "I, um, suggested that he just talk to his father like most people would."

Cuddy glared at him. Jensen whispered his own question, curious as to how exactly that topic had come up in three minutes in the restroom. "Did he ask you for your opinion what he should do?"

"No," Wilson admitted. He was getting progressively more glad that the psychiatrist was in between them. Perhaps fortunately for Wilson, the bailiff entered just then and called the courtroom to its feet.

"Leave it _alone_," Jensen said very softly as they sat back down.

Martin stepped back to the area just in front of his table, giving House space. "Just a few final questions on your own past, Dr. House. Was John House your biological father?"

"No," House replied steadily, obviously expecting the question. This must have been the topic of that quick conversation a minute ago, Cuddy thought. Martin wanted to try to introduce the fact on direct to limit Stevenson on cross.

"This is mentioned once, very briefly in one sentence, in the stolen therapy notes at the bottom of page 1, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Do you think that was John House's reason for what he did?"

"No. I think it may have contributed somewhat to his attitude, but plenty of other men have raised other people's children without hating them. There _is_ no valid reason for what he did. Nothing justifies child abuse."

Martin gave him a slight nod, pleased with that answer. Very effective on the jury and a great step-off point to the topic of Chandler.

"When did you first encounter Patrick Chandler, Dr. House?"

"In March of last year. I had been asked to play the piano at my psychiatrist's wedding. Patrick was involved just then with a distant relative, and he came to the rehearsal dinner. At the dinner table, he caught my attention by reaching across to the bread basket in the middle of the table."

"Why did he catch your attention?"

"His hands reminded me of John's."

"Physically?"

"In part, but much more in attitude. They were _dominating_ hands, like even with just a roll, he would take it as a personal challenge to be slapped down hard if the roll defied him or tried to get away."

"Have you ever run into anybody else whose hands reminded you of John's, Dr. House?"

"No. I've noticed faint physical resemblance at times, but nothing that bothered me, just a passing observation. Nothing anywhere near this strong."

"Have you ever run into _anybody_ in your life who physically reminded you of John?"

"Not physically. There have been a few people who reminded me of him in attitude, but in every case, it took a little while to arrive at that conclusion. I have never met anybody other than Patrick who made me immediately think of him at the first second or anybody who reminded me of him that strongly."

"So your reaction that night was an unusual one for you?"

"Very unusual."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing then. I looked at him - he doesn't really look like John, by the way - and then just went on with the dinner."

"Had you been thinking of John that evening?"

"No. The reaction was totally out of the blue, not tied onto a memory I already had in mind."

"Did you tell anyone about this?"

"I told my psychiatrist later that night only because I knew he had a daughter and that Patrick had to be tied to the extended family somehow since he was at the dinner. I just warned him to watch out for his daughter and be cautious if they ever encountered Patrick again. I did say that I had no proof of anything."

"After the wedding and before Christopher Bellinger entered the hospital, did you ever see Patrick Chandler again?"

"No."

"Did you think about him regularly?"

"Not regularly. A time or two at first just with curiosity, because my reaction to him had been so unusual, but then I pretty much filed that episode as closed and went on with my life. I already had warned my psychiatrist just in case, and there was nothing more I could do about it. No reason to keep him in mind."

"So you did nothing to satisfy your 'curiosity' about him?"

"No. It wasn't strong enough to waste time on when I had no proof he'd done anything."

"When did you next encounter Chandler?"

"That was last October. I had arrived at the hospital one morning. I was standing waiting for the elevator, and he came up behind me and reached past me to push the button, even though it was already pushed. I recognized him instantly, even before I turned around. Same reason as at the dinner; his hands reminded me of John, and since there was only one person who ever had that effect on me, I knew it must be him."

"Did he startle you?"

"Yes, he did. I had been thinking while I was standing there and didn't realize someone had come up until he reached past me."

"What had you been thinking about?"

"My younger daughter had had her first birthday the day before, and I'd taken the day off to spend with my family. I was remembering bits from the party and how far she had come. She was born very prematurely and was in the NICU for four months, so her first birthday was especially a milestone, a victory for her and for the family." Thinking of Abby brought a slight smile, but then House abruptly thought of Thornton, sitting in the other room watching this by closed-circuit, eager to walk right in after 50 years and claim his grandchildren. House quickly wrenched his thoughts back to Martin.

"Good thoughts, then?"

"Very good thoughts."

"Not memories of John?"

"No. I was in a great mood, not lost in the past at all, not under any kind of special stress. Just thinking about my family."

"And out of this great, non stressed mood, you _immediately_ had the same reaction to Chandler as at the dinner, just from seeing his hands alone?"

"Yes."

"What happened when you turned to him?"

"He was standing there in front of the elevator doors with Ann Bellinger. They were both looking at me curiously, because he had startled me, and I had jumped. But Patrick didn't remember me from the wedding, and Ann had never met me before. After we went into the elevator, they were talking about Christopher. Ann was worried about him, but Patrick thought he was just faking it for attention."

"Objection." Stevenson hit his feet.

"Sustained," the judge said. "Don't tell us what Chandler was thinking, Dr. House."

Martin felt a ripple of annoyance at his opponent making him take the long way, but not a trace of that showed in his voice. "Did you hear Chandler make comments in the elevator about Christopher's illness, Dr. House?"

"Yes."

"What did you hear him say?"

"He said that Christopher was making a federal case out of nothing and that he would be fine."

"In only your opinion, did he sound concerned about the boy?"

House waited politely through Stevenson's objection and the judge dismissing it before he replied. "No, _in my opinion_, he did not sound concerned at all, more like his time was being wasted."

"What happened then?"

"They got off at the floor with pediatrics, and I went on up to my office. We didn't have a case that morning because we'd just solved the previous one, and my team had only done clinic duty on my day off for my daughter's birthday. So they were looking through the ER log, which is something we do routinely, just to see if anything really interesting walked in overnight. I noticed Christopher's name on the log and that his admitting complaint included epistaxis - that's a nosebleed - and bruising as well as fever. The combination of epistaxis and bleeding could point to a clotting disorder - he actually _did_ turn out to have a clotting disorder. But bruising could also have less innocent explanations, and given that I knew his mother was with Patrick, I decided to check it out, purely medically."

"What would you have done if you had discovered no evidence of abuse?"

"Worked the case purely on the medical symptoms."

"So you think your mind was not already made up before you even saw the boy."

"No, it was just one possibility. I hadn't already made up my mind. There were others listed with equal weight, and above all, I needed more data before favoring any of them. There might even be more than one possibility true, which is what turned out to be the case here. If I had been locked into the abuse theory right off the bat, I never would have seen the severity of the medical illness."

"What was your impression of Christopher Bellinger?"

House looked back out at Cuddy for a moment. "He was terrified."

"Terrified. What makes you think that?"

"He was very tense - which could have just been small kid in a hospital, but the nurses and the equipment didn't bother him at all. In fact, he was barely paying attention to them. Didn't even jump at a needle stick. He was watching Patrick extremely closely, even when Patrick was clear across the room. He was _always_ aware of him. He also was very reluctant to say anything was hurting or to say how he felt, and every time anyone asked that, either me or a nurse, he would look very quickly toward Patrick first. _In my opinion_, he had been threatened never to say that he was hurting, and Patrick was tied to that threat in his mind."

Court paused for another objection there, but House had gotten the phraseology right. Martin gave him a nod of approval as Stevenson sat back down sullenly. "What was Christopher's response to his mother?"

"She was trying to soothe him, holding his hand, talking to him. He was noticing her, and he would move slightly into her hand, not away. He definitely wasn't afraid of her. He was watching Patrick, but he was aware of her, too, and she was being a comfort to him." He looked at Ann Bellinger, sitting on the front row behind the railing. She looked thinner than she had in November. He knew she was in therapy herself now; he hoped it was helping.

"So what were your conclusions from that first meeting with Christopher?"

"I believed that he was being abused, specifically by Patrick. I couldn't say that Patrick was the only one, of course, since there might be others in his life who weren't there in the room. But I was sure of the fact and that at least Patrick was one of his abusers. I also thought that he was much sicker than we realized yet, worse even than Andrews thought."

"So even while you were concluding that Christopher was a victim of abuse, you still were processing his symptoms medically at the same time?"

"Yes. Like I said, you can't get too fixated on just one answer and ignore other data. The fact that he was abused did not mean he wasn't really sick."

"What did you do then?"

"I left the team getting initial tests going medically, and I went up to my office and filed a report with CPS. After that, I totally left the abuse angle in their hands and only worked the case medically."

"Do you think you were working efficiently that day?"

"Yes. I was _very_ focused medically. All my medical instincts were saying that Christopher was quite ill and that we were on a tight deadline to get him diagnosed. That needed my full attention. The only distraction from the medical case that day came when CPS opened their investigation and Patrick assaulted me."

"He assaulted _you_. How did he know you were the one who had filed the report?"

House paused. "Since he had no direct information and he isn't a mind reader, I think he probably figured it out watching me watch Christopher and realized that I had been abused myself. I think I must have set off his radar just like he set off mine, even if he was much later putting it together." House couldn't resist that little stab at Patrick. Stevenson objected again there, to no avail.

Martin continued after the objection. "Dr. House, I want you to think about Chandler's attitude that day as you observed it. When he learned that CPS was investigating, did he seem to you to be surprised?"

"No. He was angry instantly. He punched me in the eye and knocked me into the wall. But as soon as he was pulled off, he immediately tried -" House saw Stevenson shift and rephrased it. "I heard him making comments to Ann Bellinger that I suspected _her_ of abuse. Which was absolutely not true."

"How did Chandler seem to you during that confrontation, other than angry?"

"In my opinion, he was being manipulative with Ann, trying to twist this new element of the investigation to his purposes."

"And did that remind you of John House?"

"Not at all. John was very direct. He often just plain lied, like about how I got hurt, but he did not try to twist up situations with other people. He - he hated _me_ specifically. It was personal. _In my opinion,_ Patrick's attitude toward Christopher did not appear personal, more like Christopher was just an object to him. He seemed to me to be angry at being challenged with the CPS filing, and I thought it looked like he was trying to get back at me by turning Ann against me." House sat back as Stevenson objected again. The judge overruled him, though he did remind the jury that these were only House's opinions and that Chandler would have a chance to present his side as well. Opinions or not, the jury was riveted by this evidence, on the edge of their seats. Martin felt satisfied as he resumed questioning his witness.

"Interesting. So you actually, even in the middle of this day, were aware of differences between Chandler and John?"

"Yes, I was. I was not locked onto memories of John and unable to see Patrick clearly because of that."

"Actually, Chandler's actions delayed the medical case with Christopher, didn't they?"

"Yes. He delayed me and the team somewhat while he was protesting so much against CPS and then trying to get Ann to change doctors. If he had actually gotten Ann to throw me off the case, which I heard him urge her to do, that would have delayed Christopher's diagnosis even more. I'm the best doctor in that hospital. Nobody else would have gotten it faster."

"Have you ever filed other CPS reports, Dr. House?"

"Yes. We are mandated reporters; if there is a possibility of abuse of a child, we are _required_ to file. The same with elderly or incompetent patients and Adult Protective Services. It doesn't come up every day, but there have been many times over the years when it did."

"So you have seen many other parents or families react to the news that they are being investigated?"

"Yes, I have."

"What are the common responses to that?"

"Some people are defensive, but it's usually in a general way. Sort of, 'How could _anybody_ ever think that of us?' I've heard them speculate who might have filed on them, even asking some staff who did, but Patrick immediately singling out me and assaulting me was not common at all. Actually, I have run into several families who are _grateful_. Often people who in fact have not been abusive understand why the system is in place, and they don't feel persecuted by an investigation. They realize that what is inconveniencing them might actually save another child in other circumstances."

"So Chandler was not just reacting as you have seen many others react to the same news?"

"No, he was not."

"Think about the day as a whole, all of your observations of Chandler. Did you ever see him appear concerned toward Christopher?"

"No."

"Did you ever see him touch the boy or speak soothingly to him?"

"No, I didn't."

"Did he ever seem to you to be confused at times, like he suddenly wondered what was going on around him?"

"No, he did not."

"And you spent several hours, what could be expected to be very stressful hours for him and Ann, around him that day, correct?"

"Yes."

"What is your impression of him from that day from your observations?"

"Deliberate, cold, and arrogant."

Martin could sense that answer ricocheting around the jury as Stevenson, like a jack-in-the-box, objected again. Once things had settled down, he asked another question, just to rub the point in.

"Your impression of him was deliberate, cold, and arrogant. Did you _ever_, even briefly, see him act differently during that day?"

House thought about it, which was good. It didn't need to come across as a rehearsed answer to the jury. "Only right after he found out about CPS. For that instant, when he ran at me, he was furious. That was by far the most emotion I saw from him that day, and it was directed against me, not Christopher's illness or CPS. Just a minute later, he was back in control, and from what I heard him say, he seemed to be twisting the situation to Ann Bellinger that quickly. I did not observe any disorientation or confusion in between fury and control there, nor did he ask what was going on as if he had missed it earlier."

Martin nodded, satisfied. House was getting very good at this; Stevenson hadn't won an objection in a while, although he was relentlessly trying. "So while this 4-year-old boy was hospitalized and constantly getting worse and eventually died, during that entire day, the only time you saw strong emotion from Chandler was when he attacked you?"

"Yes."

The jury thought about that answer, too. Martin gave them a moment. "Back to the medical case. What happened the rest of the day?"

"Christopher continued to get worse, and no treatment was helping. I finally diagnosed him with West Nile encephalitis, but I had already had him on the correct treatment for a while before the diagnosis, because I was tending toward a virus anyway. We tried everything medically. But that disease can move very quickly, and the boy simply couldn't fight it off. He died the next morning about 5:00."

"Did you stay at the hospital all night?"

"Yes, I did."

"Even after the diagnosis?"

"Yes. There wasn't really anything else I could do that wasn't already being done, but I wanted to watch him. I was - hoping he could fight it off. It happens, but a doctor never gets used to losing patients, especially children."

"What was Chandler's reaction at Christopher's death?"

"He was _looking _at me. Didn't say anything, just was looking at me. He was - _in my opinion_, he still looked mad at me for filing the CPS report, but it was a cold anger, not like that little flare at first."

"Did you see him appear to be grieving himself for Christopher?"

"No."

"Did you see him comfort Ann Bellinger in any way?"

"No."

"Tell us about West Nile encephalitis, Dr. House."

"The West Nile virus is spread by being bitten by an infected mosquito. Most of the time, it just results in flu-like symptoms, but sometimes, it also exhibits severe neurological symptoms. Encephalitis is an infection of the brain. When the disease goes that far, it is extremely serious, often fatal. Even if it isn't fatal, when West Nile gets into the central nervous system, it will usually have permanent effects."

"So Christopher, had he lived, wouldn't have made a 100% recovery?"

"Probably not."

"And all this starts with a mosquito bite?"

"Yes."

"What is the incubation period of the virus?"

"About three weeks."

"And again, you think you worked to your usual standards on Christopher's case?"

"Yes. I was being very deliberate to focus just on the medical part, because I knew we were racing the clock. I left the abuse angle totally to CPS once I filed the report. I had the diagnosis within 12 hours, which is very good time considering he was initially thought just to have a bug. We were already treating him appropriately medically even before the diagnosis. There is nothing different I could have done to prevent his death. I wish the outcome had been different, but it was not my fault, nor my team's. That disease is vicious even with adults, and children, of course, are not as strong physically."

"After Christopher's death, what did you do?"

"I went home, went to bed, and took a few days off to recover physically. Then I went back to work."

"In the next three weeks, did you take any further steps with Chandler?"

"No. From my point of view, the episode was closed with Christopher's death."

The judge adjourned them for another recess there, and House and Cuddy took another walk up and down the hall outside of Martin's office, stretching out his leg. Everybody was quiet, trying to give him a break. Once court resumed, Martin moved on to the distribution of the paperwork after making sure that the judge and jury had their own copies immediately available.

"What happened from your point of view on the day that the legal papers were distributed by Andrews at the hospital?"

"I didn't realize at first how many copies there were. A process server came early that afternoon and gave me a set, and I thought that was it at the moment. Even that much, I was shocked. I had no idea how Patrick had come up with that information."

"So you realized immediately that Ann Bellinger was not behind this, even though it was her name?"

"Yes." House looked at Ann, who was looking guilty at the moment. "She was mad at me at that time over Christopher, but the . . .the _malice_ it took to hunt up my background and put that in public legal papers, that isn't her. I knew it had to be Patrick."

"What did you do?"

"I already had an appointment with my psychiatrist that afternoon, and I went on to that. I actually thought his office had been the source of the information leak, and I wanted to ask him about it. While I was there, my wife called and said she had discovered multiple copies distributed around the hospital."

"And your wife is administrator at Princeton Plainsboro, right?"

"Yes."

"What else did she tell you, Dr. House?" Martin pushed him gently as he stalled just a bit after his former answer.

House looked directly at Patrick for one of the few times so far, then quickly looked away. He couldn't let that fake bewildered look get him mad. "She told me that Dr. Hadley had committed suicide."

"Dr. Hadley was also named in the papers with medical information about her. Tell me, Dr. House, was Dr. Hadley's medical condition common knowledge around the hospital?"

"No. Some people knew; she had been in some drug trials. But it certainly wasn't spread around like that. And it was _not_ affecting the quality of her work mentally. She had even spoken to me recently and said that when it started to impact her mentally, she would quit, and I told her I would let her know on my end if I thought it was time. She _was_ developing a slight physical tremor that was increasing at times; Patrick had the opportunity to see one of those times in Christopher's room. He made use of the information."

Stevenson objected there, but the judge overruled him. "We have already heard testimony from Mr. Andrews about these papers, Mr. Stevenson. Is it your intention to claim that your client was _not_ behind the investigation and distribution of the background information?"

"No," Stevenson admitted grudgingly, "but psychiatrically, my client . . ."

"You will have your turn," the judge cut him off. "I'm sure the jury will keep both sides in mind once they hear your defense." There was just a hint of subliminal _don't waste the court's time objecting to things you admit anyway_ message beneath his tone. Stevenson sat back down.

Martin waited politely for that exchange, but he was satisfied with how things were going. Stevenson was, of course, trying to rattle House and keep him off balance with all the objections, but he was succeeding in annoying the judge at this point. The defense was going to have to back off a little at their efforts during direct and wait for cross. Meanwhile, House's point, while borderline in how he expressed it, had definitely been received by the jury, that Patrick was a conniving bastard who soaked up information just in case he could use it later, even while at the sickbed of his girlfriend's 4-year-old son.

"We know how the information about your mother came from her therapy notes. Just to emphasize, Dr. House, how many people in your life prior to the distribution of these legal papers knew your background of abuse?"

"Five," House stated. "My wife, my best friend, my mother, my psychiatrist, and her psychiatrist."

"Only five. Then this paperwork was distributed all around your workplace."

House nodded. That point still bothered him, but he went on steadily. "It was sent to my whole team, put in the staff mailboxes, posted on the bulletin board - all highlighted copies. We actually don't _know_ how many copies were sent around the hospital, because it was a few hours before my wife went searching for them. Patrick also mailed copies to my in-laws." The foreman of the jury flinched there in sympathy, possessing a set of prize in-laws himself.

"So your past, with details known only to five people, was suddenly known by everyone at your workplace and also revealed to your extended family." Martin emphasized that, playing the sympathetic response on the jury for all it was worth.

"Yes," House said.

"I understand how much of a shock that must have been. So you went on to your appointment, and then your wife called you. What then?"

"I came back to the hospital to help my wife with finding and shredding copies. Not that that would undo it, but it was at least doing something. That was Friday night. That whole weekend, I think I was still in shock, but by Sunday night, I was starting to think about what to do next. It occurred to me that Patrick might well be a serial offender. He was with a different woman at the wedding in March, and that wasn't that long before I saw him with Ann Bellinger in October. At the least, I thought he went through women like changing his shirt, and at worst, if they all had small children, I thought he might move on from child to child, with the women completely secondary. So I hired a PI to investigate him."

Martin saw Stevenson twitch during that, debating objecting, then deciding not to. Good. Stevenson knew the judge was losing patience with him, and really, the evidence that Patrick _was_ a serial offender was indisputable. The entire defense was diminished responsibility, not a challenge to that fact. "We've already heard from Mr. Douglas. What were your motives in hiring him, Dr. House?"

"I wanted to at least get enough to convince Ann Bellinger to drop the case, but I also already knew that if there was enough proof or even strong suspicion, I'd go back to CPS with it. We also went to Syracuse to talk to the woman Patrick had been with at the wedding, and there we found that she did have a young daughter, nearly the same age as Christopher, and that Patrick had been very helpful to always volunteer to babysit." One woman on the jury looked sick at the implications of that. Stevenson debated again but left it alone; it did nothing for his case to keep getting slapped down by the judge in front of the jury. Annoying House and breaking up his rhythm wasn't worth that.

"What happened the rest of that next week?"

"I went back to work on Tuesday." House looked back to Cuddy. "I was worried about that, but things were changed less than I thought. It turns out that a lot of people didn't even believe the papers, thought they were a shady lawyer fabrication." He smiled slightly at that. "There were a few people being jerks but less than I had thought I'd run into."

"What was Dr. Andrews like that week?"

"He was definitely one of the jerks. He was _poking_ at me. Always hovering around, referring to the papers, saying he was sorry about that and about Hadley. I knew by then that he was the one who had distributed the papers, because my wife had looked up the security tapes from the lounge. So I just annoyed him - and Patrick by extension - by not reacting to any of his comments. Then on Friday he dumped the carpet glue." House shivered suddenly, looking automatically to Cuddy again. "That one might have worked, but my team warned me in time. Lucas Douglas got back late that next weekend, and on Monday, we went to Ann Bellinger with what he had and then went to the police."

Martin nodded, satisfied. "Are you mad at Patrick Chandler, Dr. House?"

This was practiced ground. "Of course I am to some extent. He took my past and threw it out there in front of the world. But I was going after facts on him, not trying underhanded tactics like he was using. I was interested in the truth, and really, the more I found out, the more I was concerned for all of the children. That was a lot bigger than just being mad at him myself. It was also Patrick who chose to go on against me after Christopher's death. I would have marked the whole episode closed after that; I wasn't trying to get at him. I'm . . . glad in a way, though. If he hadn't made me _keep_ thinking about it, I wouldn't have realized from the speed he worked that there were probably more children out there and wouldn't have started investigating. That was . . . worth it." That last part wasn't rehearsed, and House straightened up a little as he said it, looking at Jensen. It _was_ worth it, he thought. All of this was worth it. Jensen smiled at him.

Martin gave that a moment to soak in. This was excellent. "Once more, Dr. House, during your entire experience with Patrick Chandler, have you ever seen him appear to be confused or disoriented, even briefly?"

"No."

"Did you ever see him express true concern or affection toward Christopher?"

"No."

"In just your opinion, was he aware of his actions, both toward Christopher and toward you?"

"Every single step of the way. It was a campaign, intelligently and logically plotted out, never wavering. In my opinion, he knew exactly what he was doing."

Martin smiled at him and stepped back. "Your witness," he said to Stevenson.

The judge, as Martin had figured, immediately looked at his watch. It was close to lunch time; the judge would never ask them to start cross right now. "Court will adjourn for lunch. We will resume at 1:00." He smacked the gavel down, then stood up.

House sat back in the chair, breathing deeply, one hand unconsciously rubbing his leg. The easy part was over. In just a little while, the true battle would begin.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Here's a short update for you typed during the surprise "maintenance" downtime yesterday at work when the servers were down. Thanks for the reviews. And yes, there is plenty more coming on the Thornton side plot and Jensen talking to House, etc. To prison!

(H/C)

House, Cuddy, Jensen, and Wilson went out to a small corner grill to eat lunch. Martin had offered them retreat to his office and calling for delivery, but House wanted to get out of the courthouse for a while. Lunch was difficult, but he tried to make himself force it down, at least enough to take the NSAIDs. He would need all the help he could get this afternoon. Jensen had brought a few squares of Cathy's fudge for dessert. After eating half a burger, some fries, and a piece of fudge, House headed for the restroom to put on a fresh heat patch, and to Wilson's annoyance, Jensen pointedly went with them, obviously representing conversation police. Once they came out, Cuddy tied the Ghostbusters tie back on loosely. House had gladly discarded it during the meal.

They headed back to the courthouse, and the outside steps seemed to House even longer heading up than before. He could feel that he was on edge, as well as already somewhat tired from several hours of testimony this morning, and that annoyed him. He had to keep on top of things. Stevenson had been advertised to be an absolute terrier on cross, and that was before House and company had conveniently handed him extra ammunition. This morning had been a picnic compared to what this afternoon would be. "Remember, you can annoy him by not reacting," Jensen said very softly in a last minute pep talk as they reached the front of the courtroom.

"To prison!" Wilson stated. Cuddy said nothing, but the squeeze of her hand in his before she let go and the way she traced the two rings was louder than words. House limped back up to the stand and sat down.

Martin walked up for a final brief conference. "Don't let him get to you; he will be trying. Remember that I'm here on your side, too, and you don't have to take anything alone. I'm sure I'll throw in some of my own objecting this afternoon. You were wonderful this morning; I think we've already got this case in the jury's eyes. He won't help himself out at all by attacking you."

"He'll still try it, though," House said.

Martin nodded. "He'll try, but we have the upper hand. All we have to do is maintain our position."

Stevenson re-entered at that point and gave a mocking nod toward House. The man looked absolutely predatory and supremely confident. It's an act, House reminded himself. He _wants_ to make me think he's confident.

The guards brought Patrick in, and the bailiff entered. Martin gave House a final smile. "Drive him crazy by not giving him points," he said, echoing Jensen's thought.

"All rise." The courtroom surged to its feet as the judge entered.

It was as they were sitting down again that House spotted "John." At least, obviously intended to be John. The man sitting near the aisle was shifting in his seat extensively after sitting down, leading to a diagnosis of either hemorrhoids or trying to be sure he was noticed, and then he took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

House almost wanted to laugh. Physically, yes, there was some strong resemblance, obviously based from the obituary picture. But John had been so much more of an attitude than physical attributes, and this poor, paid lackey simply did not have it. If this was the best Stevenson could come up with on short notice, maybe they'd all overestimated the other man.

Stevenson approached him slowly, deliberately, dragging the process out so much that House wanted to offer him the cane if it would speed things up. The attorney was obviously giving him time to notice "John." Finally, the man arrived in front of him, only to immediately and with theatrical flourish start turning out his pockets. "Dr. House, I want to emphasize first off not only to you but to the jury and His Honor that I have no carpet glue or any other unfair props on my person. Unlike my client's previous counsel, I am only interested in the facts here. Now, then, my first question to you is a simple one. Do I have any carpet glue with me, Dr. House?"

"No," House replied. Keep the answers as short as possible, Martin had said, and House forced himself not to add editorial comment. He also didn't mention "John," who was more an amusement than a distraction. Stevenson clearly either wanted to unbalance him on the stand or at the least, if that didn't work, make him protest, at which point innocent citizen "John" would produce his innocent citizen card and make House look like he was imagining things. House looked down at his support group. They obviously realized that something had caught his attention but also not in a bad way.

Stevenson slowly replaced his change and his wallet into his pockets, then faced House, and the theatrical deliberateness faded as he launched his first attack swiftly. "Dr. House, you have said that your _father_ was not actually your father after all." The emphasis that he threw onto the title for John made it clear that he, too, had noticed House's change of terms, and he didn't plan to respect it at all.

"It is true that John House was not my biological father," House agreed. He was still mad at Thornton, but he was even more determined to keep a handle on it at the moment.

"What is your biological father's name?" Stevenson asked.

Martin came to his feet at that. "What possible relevance can his name have to this case?"

The judge looked at Stevenson inquiringly. "Well, Mr. Stevenson?"

"He might be a potential witness for the defense," Stevenson replied.

House sat up straighter in the hard, wooden chair, jolting his leg doing it. "What could he . . ." he started, eyes glittering.

Martin cut him off, taking up the battle himself. "You _can't _just throw in another witness at the last minute without discovery. Had you wanted his identity, since his existence _is_ after all in the therapy notes your client stole, you should have tried to find it earlier. He wasn't a surprise to you."

"I hadn't realized how pertinent this might be until last night," Stevenson noted.

The judge smacked his gavel down, silencing the ripple of low comments across the courtroom. "Both of you, come here," he ordered. Stevenson and Martin approached the bench. House kept an ear cocked in their direction but looked out at Cuddy and Jensen. The whole thought of Thornton up here in front of the world sharing even more details from his past shook House up, though he was trying to keep control. Cuddy looked mad herself. Jensen shook his head, reassuring House that there was no real chance of that happening. Stevenson was only trying to throw him off balance.

The judge seemed to hold the same viewpoint in the low conversation that only House and counsel could hear. "Mr. Stevenson, you _did_ have plenty of prior opportunity to locate Dr. House's biological father if you thought he might be relevant to your defense. Bringing up the matter like that abruptly here in court in a question is dangerously close to using the legal process just as an empty threat to try to shake up the witness."

Stevenson dug in. "Your Honor, there was new information that just came to light last night. I was not aware how relevant his biological father might be to this case until that point."

"What new information came to light last night?" the judge demanded.

"Dr. House's biological father actually came to court, and in a private conversation that a group including my opponent _chose_ to have directly in front of me after court had adjourned, it became obvious that his true father might hold significant additional information on Dr. House's past."

House turned back to face them. "He has _nothing_ to do with this case against Patrick," he insisted softly, unable to resist joining this conversation at the bench. He was allowed to talk to the judge, after all, and this was ridiculous.

Martin took a half step toward him in an unspoken gesture of solidarity, trying to calm him down, though his words were aimed at Stevenson. "So if you decided last night that he was relevant to your case, why didn't you mention that possibility this morning? Why wait until after lunch and spring it right out of the gate in cross if all you are after is the truth?"

"That's a valid point," the judge agreed. "If you truly thought new evidence to support your client had come to light, you should have revealed that to me and to opposing counsel in _private_ conference first thing this morning. Tell me, Mr. Stevenson, exactly _what_ do you think his father might testify to?"

Stevenson tried to keep looking directly at the judicial glare, but he was wilting a bit. "I haven't had time or opportunity to thoroughly explore it. I would have done that when I found out his identity. I do think there might be relevance here."

The judge shook his head. "_No_, Mr. Stevenson. Furthermore, your timing is very suspect. The name of Dr. House's biological father is not at all relevant."

"May I cross-examine Dr. House on his own past? My opponent introduced that at substantial length himself," Stevenson pointed out.

"Yes, that is fair. However, the _fact_ that Dr. House was abused is obvious from medical evidence. If you wish to challenge that, you should have had your own medical experts lined up. I will allow questions about Dr. House's past and how it formed his perceptions and possible prejudices, as that is relevant, but I will not allow you to challenge the fact of his abuse with him rather than independent medical witnesses or to simply try to make empty public threats just for emotional impact on him. And if you have any other points of procedure that should be brought up privately to me rather than in front of the jury, I strongly suggest you remember that." The judge dismissed both of them with a wave of his hand and raised his voice. "The jury will disregard counsel's former statements. The identity of Dr. House's father has no relevance at all to this trial, and he is _not_ a potential witness."

Martin sat back down, having technically won his point, but the prosecutor also realized that Stevenson had accomplished his goal. House was definitely more rattled than he had been a few minutes ago, and it showed.

Stevenson turned back to House, a pleased glint in his eyes. "Dr. House, you have testified that nobody except your father - your apparent father, that is - and yourself knew about this abuse while you were growing up."

"Correct," House said.

"Was your biological father around during your childhood?"

"Intermittently."

"At the least, did he make several visits?"

"Yes."

"How frequently? Yearly?"

"Probably at least every other year, I would see him."

"So he knew you were his son?"

"Yes."

"And he might be expected to take particular interest in you and watch you closely, even if from the sidelines?"

House was putting up an excellent fight to keep from letting the anger take over. "That would make sense, yes."

"And in all that, when he was particularly watching you, he never noticed anything?"

House tried to force his muscles to relax. His leg was aching. "No, he did not."

"Did he see injuries?"

"Yes."

"On multiple occasions?"

"Yes, he did."

"Was he aware of tension between you and your apparent father?"

"Yes."

"Yet he never noticed a thing. Didn't that make you mad when you were growing up?"

"Yes," House admitted. It made him mad even now, but he was trying hard to keep a grip on things. He looked back out at Cuddy, who looked like she might be contemplating assault if not murder.

"And your mother, who had much more constant exposure, never noticed anything either?"

"No, she didn't."

For the first time, Cuddy was glad for his illogical attitude toward Blythe, whatever the psychiatric cause of it. Thinking about Blythe missing things actually calmed him down somewhat from thinking about Thornton missing them, helping to steady him. She looked over at Jensen. There was anger in the psychiatrist's own eyes, though he was trying to conceal it, but there was also analytical interest. He won't let this drop, Cuddy remembered Patterson saying. Jensen will deal with it; he's just letting him get through testifying first.

Stevenson sensed that Blythe was perhaps the wrong way to emphasize his point and quickly switched subjects. "Were there other people around you during your childhood who missed all the signs?"

"Yes, there were."

"Including teachers and medical professionals in ERs?"

"Yes."

"Interesting that all of them missed what according to Dr. Cranston was so obvious. Do you know how many childhood injuries he said you have had, Dr. House?"

"He could only see the ones with lasting physical marks decades later; that's not all of them. I lost count," House admitted softly, getting the answer in right before Martin came to his feet again. The prosecutor was glad of that slight delay in objecting a moment later because again, House's routine, matter-of-fact statement, as when he talked of John trying to twist his ankle off, had resounding impact on the jury.

"Your Honor," Martin said, "Counsel had the opportunity already to examine Dr. Cranston."

"Sustained," the judge said. "If you are going somewhere with this line, Mr. Stevenson, speed up the journey a little."

Martin sat back down. Stevenson walked a step closer to House. "Dr. House, have your childhood experiences made you especially sensitive to the possibility of abuse in patients you see?"

House hesitated. "I'm not sure if they made me _especially _sensitive to it, but it is a question we must always consider as doctors. Like I said, we are mandated reports."

"But Dr. Andrews was also a mandated reporter, was he not?"

"Yes."

"Yet he apparently had no suspicions of his own with Christopher, whom he saw before you did. You described the child as terrified; he thought he was a small boy with just a routine bug."

"Andrews was _wrong_," House said firmly. "He was wrong about both the abuse and about the routine bug."

"Yet you saw it so quickly while he saw nothing."

"And _that_ is why I'm head of the Department of Diagnostic Medicine and get all those consult requests every week and why Andrews was a third-rate pediatrician," House replied, giving into temptation for once. Well, not really. He was actually tempted to commit first-degree assault with a cane. This jerk was getting annoying. Still, it was nice to get in a counter shot for once, even if he wasn't supposed to be doing that on the stand. A low ripple of laughter ran across the courtroom, everybody except Stevenson and Patrick liking that remark. Cuddy gave House an approving smile.

Stevenson went on smoothly as if the point hadn't been scored. "Are you telling me that as a doctor who was an abuse victim, you have never made a vow to yourself that you always would be vigilant for warning signs in your patients because so many warning signs with you had been missed?"

House paused, trying to figure out a way around that one. "I did," he finally admitted. "But that doesn't mean that I. . ."

Stevenson interrupted him. "Ah, so you _did_ make such a vow to yourself, and your feelings about that do run deeper than just being a mandated reporter. I'm sure we can all understand that, given the unfairness of your biological father and everyone else ignoring all those warning signs during your own childhood. Being abandoned like that for years by all the adults around you would certainly make you more prompt than other doctors to suspect abuse of children you treat."

Martin started to his feet, and the judge saved him the trouble. "Mr. Stevenson, you will have an opportunity to address the jury. If you have another question, ask it instead of making a speech. Or actually, don't ask it yet. Court will take a 30-minute recess." The judge rapped sharply with his gavel, then stood up and exited. House let out a deep breath and stood up, flinching as his leg protested.

Martin walked up to him. "Holding up okay?" he asked softly.

House nodded, looking past him to Cuddy, who was already on her way. He needed her as much as he needed a leg-stretching walk at the moment. 'John,' who was going through an extreme stretching routine to be noticed, was totally ignored.

In the overflow room, Thomas Thornton remained in his seat as the people stood and shifted around him, lost in his own temptation to first-degree assault against that attorney who was trying to turn his errors into more ammunition against his son.


	14. Chapter 14

House spent most of the break walking up and down the hallway outside the prosecutor's office, stretching his leg out, but he was aware of the others watching him and analyzing silently. His leg was bothering him more than it had earlier in the day, even with the breaks. It had been a long day of court already. Martin looked at his watch finally, and House came to a stop on the next lap. "Did you spot 'John?' About a third of the way back on the aisle on the left."

Martin sighed. "I was afraid he might try to find a lookalike. Do you want me to object?"

House shook his head. "I'm not sure what you'd be able to object to. It's a public trial, and Stevenson would deny any connection with it and just try to make it look like I've lost it. But he isn't bothering me. Actually, it's almost _funny_. There is _no_ resemblance other than somewhat physical. Let him stay there, and I can look at him and remember just how desperate Stevenson is to be trying things like this. He should have left that one alone. Trying to call the prodigal sperm donor as a witness was a lot better; 'John' is overreaching." _The prodigal sperm donor_, Cuddy noted. House may have switched terms for John, but he definitely had no intention of calling Thornton his father, either.

Martin accepted the decision and didn't comment on the title. "Okay, I won't bring the fake John up then. But if Stevenson starts another line that's totally off the wall like he did just now, you don't have to jump into things while we're sorting it out. That's what I'm here for. Let me fight for you."

_Let me fight for you_. An unfamiliar concept for so much of House's life, even if he was starting to accept the people around him now. He didn't answer Martin directly, dodging instead. "What else do you think he might try? You were right on the imitation John."

"Several variations on the theme of you not seeing things clearly, and that's why you missed noticing Patrick's personality changes and were constantly suspicious. I'm sure he'll go after you with the head injuries after his cross of Cranston, and probably the medications, plus of course more of your past history. Just don't let him get to you. He tries to grind people down on cross; that's his whole style. Remember, the jury is sympathetic toward you already. He isn't going to help himself out unless he totally breaks your evidence, and he isn't going to do that because he underestimates you and because we have the truth on our side. You're more than a match for him." The prosecutor looked at his watch again. "We need to head back in there."

House limped back into the courtroom ('John' cleared his throat as he walked by) and up onto the stand, steeling himself for another round. Patrick and then the jury and judge returned, and court resumed. House had expected continued attack regarding Thornton, but Stevenson jumped to a completely different angle. "Dr. House, you have admitted that you were thinking of your _father_ at the moment you first met my client." Again, there was the subtle emphasis on _your father_.

"I was _reminded_ of John's hands by _Patrick's_." House traded subtle emphasis for subtle emphasis, knowing that Patrick objected to the full first name. That was the entire reason House insisted on using it. He looked over at the man briefly as he said it and was satisfied to see that the fake bewildered look was a bit stiff for a few seconds. "I had not been thinking about John that evening up until the point when Patrick reminded me."

"This was at your psychiatrist's wedding, you said."

"Technically, it was at the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding."

"But you were there, at that rehearsal dinner, because of your psychiatrist, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you see your psychiatrist, of course, to talk about your unfortunate past, all that extensive abuse including even being nailed down to the floor and having no one around you notice what was going on. That _is_ why you are seeing a psychiatrist, isn't it? To cope with your past?"

House felt himself tightening up defensively at the tone, which was anything but sympathetic, and he forced himself to give an even, steady answer. "Yes, it is."

"How long have you been seeing your psychiatrist?"

"About two and a half years," House stated.

"Did you know him in any other context before you became his patient?"

"No."

"So the sole reason you made his acquaintance was because of wanting help with your past?"

"Yes."

"And how often do you have sessions?"

"Weekly," House answered, but his tone qualified it slightly.

Stevenson was on it immediately, like a hound on a hot scent. "Has it been _more_ often than weekly at times?"

House stalled, hating to admit that it had in fact been daily during a few episodes. "Sometimes it has been _less_," he said. "For instance, I had two months off after a car accident."

"But has it been more often than weekly occasionally?"

"Yes," House admitted.

"At its most frequent, how often have you had professional contact with him?"

House looked over at Martin, hoping to avoid that question. Martin looked sympathetic, but he wasn't standing up to object, either. "Daily," House said finally. "Rarely, always with some other major external stressor added. That is _not_ the norm." He pushed on quickly to qualify that, not wanting to sound like he couldn't even handle getting through a normal day without attention from a shrink. He tried to look at the jury out of his peripheral vision, even though he had been told by Martin not to look at them. They didn't look like they were judging him, not openly at least.

"So at times you have even required sessions daily." Stevenson savored the words, rubbing that in. "Is your official diagnosis post traumatic stress disorder?"

"Yes."

"And for two and a half years, you have discussed your abusive past with your psychiatrist. Is your father mentioned regularly in those sessions?"

"Yes."

"Has your father been mentioned in _all_ of those sessions?"

"I've never taken official minutes of them," House replied, fighting the urge to get annoyed. "We do talk about other things, too."

"But have you talked about issues related to your father _most_?"

House looked out at Jensen briefly. Jensen looked annoyed himself just now, not terribly professionally psychiatric at the moment. "Probably we have, yes."

"And has your father come up in the majority of your sessions, even if you can't swear to all of them?"

"Yes," House admitted.

"Those occasions when you had daily sessions, would your father most likely come up every single day?"

House took a moment to think about it, hoping to come up with an honest denial. Unfortunately, he couldn't. Yes, in crisis, his past had jumped in at least once a day in all their talks. "Yes."

"So you have spent _hours and hours_ discussing your father with your psychiatrist?"

"Yes, I have."

"How many hours?"

"I haven't counted."

"But it's two and a half years' worth. So your father has been a _significant _issue that you have had trouble overcoming?"

"I . . ." House was getting good and annoyed there, but he broke off as Martin stood up, very willing to pass the battle off that time. He sat there listening, one hand resting on his leg, forcing himself not to look at those cameras and think how many people would ultimately watch his testimony.

"Objection, Your Honor. I think this point has been beaten to death. My opponent has had appropriate answers to his questions, but this isn't going anywhere except in a circle."

"Sustained. Mr. Stevenson, that is enough of prying for details of Dr. House's sessions. Move on to your next point."

"Did you encounter your psychiatrist that evening at the wedding rehearsal before the dinner?"

"Yes."

"Even have conversation with him?"

"We weren't having a session. The event was purely social."

"But you _had_ spoken to him that evening already?"

"Yes, I had."

"So do you really expect us to believe that at this function in the company of your psychiatrist, actually having conversations there with your psychiatrist, with whom you have discussed your father's abuse regularly for two and a half years, your father was not on your mind that evening until you noticed my client?"

"It was a _wedding _rehearsal, not an office appointment," House pointed out. "Our relationship isn't purely professional anymore. That evening was just a social occasion; _how_ I knew him was irrelevant that night."

"But he surely after all those hours does at least to some extent make you think of your father?"

House looked back at Jensen, sudden amusement entwining with the irritation, as he deliberately misunderstood the question. "No, actually, they are _nothing_ alike." Jensen gave House a grin and a nod, scoring the point. House suddenly seized the opportunity for a few counterblows. "Not even physically," he said, letting his eyes wander to 'John.' "John had hair and eyes that were different, and his build was more . . . more like . . ." House trailed off as if just noticing something, and Stevenson leaned forward slightly, wondering if his bait had finally been taken. House continued after the briefest pause. "But of course, it was the _attitude_ that stood out with John, not any kind of physical attributes. You could line up ten people who looked just like him, and it wouldn't be the same at all. And _that_, that attitude, is precisely why _Patrick_ reminded me of him. I hadn't been thinking of him already that evening until Patrick brought him to mind."

Stevenson switched topics, not showing his disappointment. "After you noticed my client, do you admit that you thought about your father whenever you saw him?"

House hesitated, studying that one, inspecting for booby traps. "He reminded me of John, but I also saw differences, too, right from the beginning."

"So you were _working_ to try to convince yourself that this was _not_ your father?"

"I _never_ thought he was John; John is dead and in hell where he belongs." House couldn't help feeling satisfaction with that. "I wasn't confusing the two of them. I just noticed similarities between Patrick's attitude and John's."

"And you noticed this simply from my client reaching across to a bread basket. Such a simple, routine action. But from this one action, just seeing somebody pick up a roll, you told your psychiatrist that evening that you suspected my client of abuse, didn't you?"

"I told him that Patrick's hands reminded me of John's, but I also told him that I had no proof at all. I was just covering the possibility in case, because he has a young daughter, and Patrick had to be associated with the family in some way to be at that dinner. I was concerned for the child; without her being in the picture, I probably wouldn't have said anything to him that night."

"When you spoke to your psychiatrist that evening, when you were saying there was no proof, did you tell him you thought you might be imagining things?"

House rewound that conversation, trying to remember the exact words from over a year ago. "I don't think so." No, the phrase he remembered most was not that one.

Stevenson unfortunately read the tone. "What _exactly_ were the words you used to him?"

House looked back to Jensen and then to Cuddy. "I said I wasn't sure if my mind was playing tricks on me," he admitted reluctantly. "But it _wasn't_," he got in quickly as Stevenson jumped on the first answer with both feet.

"You weren't sure if your mind was playing tricks on you." The defense attorney savored the words. "So you are used to your mind playing tricks on you?"

"No, I am _not_. My reaction that night had never happened with anybody else in 50 years. I just didn't have proof, so I was giving Patrick the benefit of the doubt, not that he deserved it." Martin shook his head slightly, not wanting House to get called down by the judge again for how he made statements about Patrick, however deserved those statements might be.

"Yet you _have_ had some serious head injuries, according to Dr. Cranston. Have you ever had hallucinations, Dr. House?"

House shivered slightly as he remembered John - not a pale imitation but actually John - walking into Cuddy's hospital room after the car accident. He forced himself to focus on the bleeding earlobe on the mental image. The ghost of the past was fatally wounded. "A couple of times," he admitted.

"A couple of times. So your mind _has_ actually played tricks on you?"

"Both times I've had hallucinations were in the immediate context of head injuries that were not being treated correctly. In both cases, I should have been in a hospital bed right then. It is _not_ something that has happened regularly."

"Those injuries weren't being treated correctly? Interesting. You are a _doctor_, after all. Surely you realized you were hurt?"

"I didn't know how bad it was at first at either time. The ER workup had not been complete." Cuddy shifted in her seat, again annoyed at this lapse - _twice_ - on the part of her hospital. The ER workup hadn't even really been _done_ back at the car accident, with nobody over two days thinking to check him out for a head injury, and back after the bus crash, when he was sitting there on the exam table in the ER, Cameron had applied a few stitches and prescribed observation, missing the skull fracture because she didn't order further tests. Given the severity of the bus crash and the fact that House obviously had some amnesia of events along with his open head injury, she should have ordered a scan immediately. Wilson should not have had to chase him down for it later after further symptoms appeared. House could have died. Both times, he could have died. She shuddered herself, and Jensen gave her arm a reassuring squeeze.

"So you weren't aware of your injuries?"

"Not the severity of them at first, no. I did eventually get diagnosed for the skull fracture, but I still wasn't focused on how bad it was."

"And yet you are that diagnostic genius my opponent so carefully described."

"There is a reason doctors don't treat themselves or their immediate family. But in both cases, actually, I was busy dealing with _other_ people's injuries or cases, so I was distracted from myself."

"So while dealing with another routine case, you weren't aware of how your own perceptions of your condition were skewed?"

"Neither one of those was a routine case," House protested. "Once, after the car accident, my wife had nearly bled out and died, wound up having major surgery, and our daughter was delivered and admitted to the NICU very premature. So _no,_ I wasn't thinking of my own condition right then; I was thinking of my family. The other time, when I fractured my skull in a bus accident, I knew there was something very important I couldn't remember. My best friend's girlfriend was in the same bus crash, only nobody realized that or went looking for her until I finally remembered she had been on the bus, too. That was what I pushed myself to remember, because I knew subconsciously that it was critical information that people needed to know. So both of those times involved life-threatening risk to people close to me. _Anybody_ would have been distracted then. It wasn't like that with Patrick." House ran a hand down his leg. The constant muscular tension of this examination as well as the length of the day so far were starting to get to him. Martin couldn't see the action from his seat, but he felt House's weariness suddenly, and he straightened up and looked at him, a silent question. House shook his head minutely.

"Actually," Stevenson pointed out, "one _could_ say that you were remembering yourself and not Christopher on this case and thus distracted from your own skewed perceptions."

"They weren't skewed," House insisted. "If I'd been distracted so much from Christopher by my past, I never would have seen the boy's medical condition. I would have focused only on the abuse."

"But you admit you _have_ continued working on medical cases in the past when you really were in no condition to?"

"Yes. Rarely."

"And you were not at those times fully aware of your own condition?"

"No, I wasn't."

"Back to specifics of these head injuries," Stevenson insisted, "have you had seizures?"

"Yes, again only in the context of the acute injury and the immediate period after. Never since."

"Severe head injuries do have longer-term effects, do they not?"

"They _can_. Not always."

"Did they with you?"

House sighed. "Yes. After the bus crash, I had severe headaches for quite a while. After the car accident, I had difficulty with language and had to work through that to be able to speak properly again. But in _both_ cases, I stopped work during the acute recovery. I was off for a couple of months each time and then started back just on half days. I also once I resumed work asked my team to speak up in particular if they thought I wasn't hitting on all cylinders. They know me well. Both times, incidentally, they had expressed concern for me before I realized the extent of my injuries. None of them made any comments to me on how I was working on Christopher's case."

"There are other things besides head injuries that can cause hallucinations, right?"

"Yes."

"Medically, what else can cause hallucinations or distorted perceptions?"

House gritted his teeth, seeing where this was going and unable to dodge out of it. "Psychiatric conditions, medical illnesses, or drugs."

"Interesting. Psychiatric conditions such as, perhaps, post traumatic stress disorder?"

"I have _never_ had hallucinations related to PTSD."

"Have you had flashbacks?"

"Yes, occasionally."

"Such as the night that you met my client at the dinner?"

"That wasn't a flashback. I wasn't lost in the past; I was _reminded_ of the past by the the present."

"Isn't that what a flashback is, having something in the present remind you of the past trauma?"

"No, there's a big difference between flashbacks and memories. In flashbacks, you get _lost_ in the past and are reliving it as if it just happened. That is not what happened at the dinner. If it were, I would have lost focus on Patrick immediately and have become lost in reliving an episode with John, say at the table, for instance. I did have _plenty_ of episodes at the table my mind could have chosen from."

"Are you aware of flashbacks when you have them?"

"I'm aware of them _after_ I have them. For the time in them, it's totally being lost in the event again. But I always know afterward that it's happened."

"Are other people around you aware of flashbacks?"

He _hated_ this. He looked out at 'John,' reminding himself how desperate Stevenson was - and how inadequate even so. "Sometimes."

"How have you been told you react during flashbacks?"

He really didn't want to answer that one. There were two varieties, the more common zoning out and the less common but much more memorable freak out and try to retreat from it all. "Nobody mentioned anything at all to me that night. I was sitting next to my wife, and as you keep pointing out, my psychiatrist was there, too. I didn't have a flashback that night that I wasn't aware of."

"That wasn't answering the question, Dr. House. What do people notice when you _do_ have flashbacks?"

Martin stood up. "Objection, your honor. I don't see the relevance of those details to the case against Chandler. The fact that he did not have one right then - neither by his own admission nor by observation of those close to him - is sufficient."

"Sustained," the judge said. "Mr. Stevenson, once the witness has responded adequately to a point, move on to your next one. The defendant at this trial is your client, not Dr. House."

House took a deep breath and rubbed his leg. Martin was watching him. So were Cuddy and Jensen. Stevenson changed aim and aligned his sights for a new attack. "One other thing that can cause distorted perceptions according to your own answer is drugs. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"So some medications can distort a person's perceptions of reality?"

"Yes."

"What medications are you on, Dr. House?"

Valid question, he knew, but he still didn't want to answer it. Stevenson waited expectantly. "Vicodin, prescription-strength ibuprofen, omeprazole, zolpidem, and I have Ativan, Flexeril, diazepam, and morphine to use p.r.n."

"Quite a list. Do any of those medications have potential mental side-effects?"

"They _can_," House admitted grudgingly. "They don't always have all of them with everybody."

"Which ones from that list _can_ affect mental processes?"

House looked back at 'John,' reminding himself. "All of them except ibuprofen and omeprazole."

"Wow. So you are on, what is it, _six_ medications which can affect you mentally?"

"They do not all have those effects on me."

"Do _any_ of them?"

"Yes. But those aren't used constantly. For instance, morphine, which hits me mentally, is only used for severe breakthrough pain. I would _never_ be working under the influence of it."

"Do you take Vicodin constantly?"

"Yes."

"So you have actually taken Vicodin during your testimony today?"

"I took some at lunch break."

"And that evening when you spotted my client's hand and jumped to the conclusion that he was an abuser, you were on it then?"

"I had taken some that evening, yes. But Vicodin does _not_ have mental effects on me. That's precisely why I use it instead of other pain medicines. I can keep working with it without having my mental edge lost."

"Has anybody ever expressed concern to you over the years that you were taking too much Vicodin?"

House looked at Wilson, who looked like he wanted to crawl through a hole in the floor just now. Cuddy was looking very guilty herself. "Yes," House admitted.

"Have you ever been actually brought up on drug charges for falsifying prescriptions to get more Vicodin?"

"The arresting officer bringing those charges has since been dismissed from the force for strong-arming witnesses and padding evidence on his cases. The charges against me were dropped at the hearing, too."

Martin stood up. "Your Honor, if my opponent wishes to pursue this point, the prosecution is prepared to introduce into evidence Detective Tritter's record and the results of the interdepartmental investigation into how he worked. He had a clear vendetta against anyone on prescription pain medicine, and he went to illegal lengths to pursue that vendetta." Martin picked up a sheaf of papers from his table. "That report on his dismissal is quite interesting reading. I have copies here for everyone."

Stevenson backed down. "I will withdraw that question."

House shifted in his seat, his leg starting to cramp up in earnest now. He massaged it surreptitiously. It wasn't yet to a spasm but was heading there. Reluctantly, he caught Martin's eye, and the prosecutor did not sit back down after the little victory on the subject of Tritter. "Your Honor, may I approach the bench?"

To House's surprise and then startled gratitude, the judge shook his head. "Mr. Martin, this has been a long day for all of us, and I think I'll go ahead and dismiss early while we're at a convenient gap. If you have a legal point to be brought up privately, I'll be glad to hear you first thing in the morning. Court is dismissed until 8:00 tomorrow." He smacked his gavel down, stood up without a glance at House, and left the courtroom. House sat there, realizing that the judge from his vantage point must have seen him working on his leg. Just dismissing by judicial whim was less obviously tied to House than dismissing immediately after a private conference with counsel.

Martin walked up. "You okay?"

House ground his fingers into his leg. "I wouldn't have been in about 10 more minutes." Cuddy approached, and he looked toward her. "Do you still have Flexeril with you?" She fished out the bottle, blocking the action with her body as the courtroom cleared out behind them, and handed him the pills. House gulped them dry, then slowly stood up, testing the leg.

"You're doing great," Martin reassured him, making this look like a legal pow-wow, although nobody was watching them except Stevenson. The defense attorney looked annoyed, realizing that House had been wearing down under the barrage of questions.

House limped slowly down the stairs, his leg quivering slightly. This day of testimony had definitely gone on long enough. Cuddy kept hold of his arm, trying not to look obvious about it but supporting him. "Let's go home, Greg," she suggested.

He sighed. "I think I'd better walk for a few minutes first before getting in the car," he admitted softly.

"Okay," she agreed instantly, trying to hide the concern in her voice. "We can go back to Martin's office again."

Jensen and Wilson were waiting for their slow advance. As House passed the defense table, he couldn't resist one audible comment, made allegedly to Cuddy. "Whatever he threw away paying that impostor, I hope it was a lot." Head up, though leg somewhat shaky, he walked on by Stevenson without a glance, heading out of the courtroom.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Here's a short chapter with a nice, domestic evening at the House house. Next chapter will be an interesting scene I've always liked out of this story and also a little more background information as Thornton re-enters the picture.

Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

House leaned his head back against the passenger's seat headrest as the car pulled away from the courthouse. Cuddy looked across and smiled at him. "You're doing wonderful, Greg."

"Yes, well done," Jensen put in from the back seat. "Furthermore, you're driving him nuts just giving calm answers to those questions. Very effective with the jury, too."

House was privately glad how many hours he had had in the last few months of practice, both from Jensen and from Martin, at cross examination. The practice wasn't close to the real thing, but it had definitely helped him. "Stevenson is pushing too hard for it," he said. He looked out the window at the passing road. He still hated this. Cuddy reached over and squeezed his hand at a stoplight.

"At least we get a nice stretch of time with the girls tonight, thanks to the judge."

House grinned. "If we were gone again tonight, I think they might revolt, Abby right along with Rachel. They know something big is going on." His grin faded as he remembered the reason he and Cuddy had been so late home last night. He tried to shove the thought of Thornton back in the box it had inhabited for all these years. He was simply too tired to think about the man tonight and didn't want to besides. "Maybe we can watch a movie. I don't really feel like piano lessons tonight."

"Still plenty of daylight left to play some in the back yard, too," Cuddy suggested. "That will run Rachel down." And later on, after a nice evening with their girls and after a hot soak, once her husband was asleep, she would call Patterson. Having to hear the medical details of her husband's near-death experiences again - and knowing it was a limited list at that - had jolted her. Her anxiety was better now than it had been a month ago, but she still trembled inside at times when she thought of how often she had come so close to losing him. She picked up his hand again, and the conversation stalled into wearied silence for the rest of the drive as they all started to decompress from this day.

Rachel nearly knocked House off balance in the force of her greeting as they entered the house. "Dada!" He actually rocked back on his heels briefly before recovering his balance and picking her up, trying not to flinch.

"You're early?" Marina asked, a question and not a statement.

"Judge decided he'd had enough of listening to that idiot defense attorney for the day," House replied. He hugged Rachel, then tried to put her down to pick up and greet Abby. Tonight, Rachel didn't want to let go, and Cuddy had to pry her off. "I'm right here, Rachel," he assured her. "I'm not going anywhere tonight. We have time."

"No," she insisted as Cuddy took her. "Me FIRST!"

"Shut up," Abby stated as her father picked her up. She wrapped both arms around his neck and hung on herself like she never wanted to let go. Cuddy's reprimand died unspoken as she saw the fierceness of her daughter's grasp. The girls were on edge, too, and they didn't even understand what everyone was on edge about. Cuddy stepped away just to make sure that Rachel didn't retaliate physically.

"It's okay, Rachel. You _were_ first, because you ran faster. Remember?"

Rachel perked up suddenly. "I run like Dada."

Cuddy closed her eyes briefly, remembering Thornton last night crossing the park. "Yes, you do."

House limped to the couch, glad he was holding the lighter Abby. His leg really was aching, even if the spasm had been aborted. By the time he got there, everybody including his daughters and Marina was analyzing his movement. He sat down and propped Abby on his good leg. "We have a whole evening, Rachel. Maybe we can watch a movie later."

She was diverted easily, although Abby was still looking at him with some concern. "We watch your movie?" she suggested. She walked over to grab the remote off the coffee table and started pushing buttons at random while holding it pointed the wrong way.

House gently reached out to at least turn it around. "Maybe not that one tonight," he suggested. It was still a little hard for him to watch his past, even if he had accepted that his family wasn't comparing him to that on-screen version and finding him lacking. Having spent so much of today talking about the past, he was ready for something totally unrelated.

Rachel looked back, still pushing buttons. "Why not?"

"Because . . . just because."

Rachel turned to Jensen, who had sat down in the recliner. Cuddy was quietly talking to Marina, verifying the schedule for tomorrow as if it hadn't been already set. "Jensen," she said, "you watch Dada's movie?"

Jensen chuckled. "You are a manipulative little thing when you want something, aren't you?" She _was _like Cathy.

House straightened up with pride. "She's learned it from the best."

"Dada could run!" Rachel informed the psychiatrist.

"I know," he replied. "But maybe another movie this evening. What about the Aristocats? That's the one with the kitten like Belle in it."

Rachel immediately turned a full circle, looking for the white cat. "Belle? Kitty, kitty."

At that moment, in her continued random button mashing, she managed to hit power while briefly aimed more or less in the right direction, and the TV screen sprang to life. "Report on scene from just a while ago at the Princeton courthouse, where the trial of Patrick Chandler is continuing. Dr. Gregory House was on the stand for the entire day today, concluding his direct testimony and then starting cross examination. While the defense was trying desperately to shake his story or discredit him, none of their tactics worked as he remained the strongest witness yet against Chandler."

Abby straightened up and pointed as the news anchor was replaced by House. "Dada!" Cuddy and Marina both came over to watch as Rachel, who had kept looking for the cat, turned to the TV herself. In her scramble, she managed to hit power again, and the screen faded. She gave a howl of protest and dropped the remote, running up to smack the TV, which remained unaffected by her efforts at discipline. Cuddy captured the remote and turned it on again, and they all intently watched a very short segment of House's testimony against Patrick - and it was one of the parts against Patrick, House noted. It wasn't his past or how often he had to see Jensen or how many meds he was on. They had chosen immediately relevant pieces tied to Patrick to air on the early evening news. House watched with interest, almost as if seeing a stranger. He did look and sound unflappable, his testimony convincing.

The scene shifted back to the news studio. "Dr. House's cross examination continues tomorrow as the defense is expected to get down to the heart of the case in their challenge. Our reporter again will be on scene tomorrow to bring you the latest in the trial of Patrick Chandler. Next, a proposal was made today to change the speed limit on some of the downtown streets in the business district. We now go to. . ." Cuddy hit power, and the TV died. House leaned back, savoring the words. The heart of the case, he reminded himself again. It is _Patrick_ who is the heart of the case.

"Dada's on TV!" Rachel said proudly.

"Dada on TV," Abby echoed. She leaned across his lap to hug him again.

Marina came over to ruffle his hair, and House pulled away sharply. "Knock it off! Any resemblance to a small kid is entirely imaginary - in fact is delusional. The height and the gray hairs are dead giveaways."

Marina totally ignored his grumbling, though she did step away. "See you all tomorrow," she said. "Good night, girls." She left, and Rachel looked back at the TV.

"More TV?"

"Why don't we go out in the back yard until dinner time?" House suggested. "You've seen me on TV now, so we can watch another movie later. But right now, why don't you show us how you can run?" Rachel raced for the back door, reaching up for the knob and frustrated because she couldn't manage the bolt higher up.

House stood up, then picked Abby back up, kissing her. "We'll have a piano lesson some other night, Abby," he promised her.

She nodded. "Tired," she said.

House sighed. "Yes, I'm tired. It was a long day. Tomorrow night, maybe, we can play the piano. _Maybe_," he emphasized. "This weekend at least."

"Dada, Mama, NOW!" Rachel called, jumping at the dead bolt.

Laughing, the adults headed for the back yard.

(H/C)

Much later, after Rachel had run laps until her legs gave out, after Abby had demonstrated a couple of new words, and after they had watched the Aristocrats in a happy family heap on the couch, cat included, the girls finally went to bed, too worn out to fight it. Jensen had retreated to the guest room to take a phone call with Melissa and Cathy part way through the movie, and he came back out just as House and Cuddy, having tucked in their daughters, were heading for the hot tub for a long, leg-soothing soak. "I'm going to take a run," he said. He needed to exercise out some of his own anger against that attorney who tried to use the therapeutic process to belittle House. House had been marvelous, but the unfairness of the strategy still annoyed Jensen.

House nodded, wishing he could go out for a long run himself. Watching Rachel just wasn't the same. "See you tomorrow."

"I've still got Dr. Cuddy's key; don't wait up for me. Good night." The psychiatrist headed out. House watched him go, half envious, half realizing that he was too tired after this day, even if he had had two sound legs.

"Come on, Greg," Cuddy said, urging him toward the bathroom door.

The hot water felt like paradise. House settled down into it with a sigh, feeling it strike deeply through the knotted muscles and slowly relax them. On second thought, being here, especially with his wife beside him, wasn't a bad substitute for running, at least not tonight. He opened his eyes and found her watching him. "What?"

She snuggled over against him. "I was just thinking how proud I am of you."

He savored the words even while he changed the subject. "At least Rachel did get to see me on TV tonight. That distracted her from wanting the lacrosse movie." They sat in silence for several minutes, absorbing the heat and the companionship. "You ought to call Patterson later tonight once I'm out. You were pretty edgy with the medical stuff."

Of course he had noticed that, even while facing the questions himself. She sighed. "I know. Actually, I called her last night, too." He looked over at her sharply, analyzing, weighing, not asking. "I wanted to talk to somebody about what happened after court," she said.

His jaw tightened. "About Thornton."

"Yes," she admitted. She could feel the tension trying to seep back into him, even with the hot water. "It's your decision, Greg. I just needed to . . . to process it a little myself." She didn't give any further details of what she'd talked about with Patterson, and he didn't ask, respecting the confidentiality in sessions rule. She did reach for his leg under the water, working on it with her skilled hands, a silent statement of affirmation, claiming him scars and all. Gradually some of the tension left him again.

"I asked Lucas to do a background check," he said suddenly, almost as a challenge, watching closely for her reaction.

It was understanding, not judgment as with Wilson. "Collecting the data to run the tests."

He nodded. "Part of the differential. He's stalked me for years, after all. Time to turn the tables." He waited another few seconds, then, convinced that she really was leaving the decision to him right now, he sat up. "Let's go to bed, Lisa."

"Best idea I've heard all day," she agreed. She agreed almost too readily, and she saw the quick flash of uncertainty across his face as he misunderstood. He was still too tired and achy tonight. "To _sleep_, Greg," she emphasized. "Tonight, we need to sleep. That way, we'll be rested up by morning."

The thought of starting tomorrow morning with her, of getting that send off of passion and reassurance as he faced another day on the stand, won him over. He slowly pried himself out of the water. She watched but did not help, and there was no pity in her eyes. In perfect harmony of silence, they dried off and headed for bed.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Celebration chapter (and low work that gave time to write it, sigh). I have fought the ISP, and I have finally, after a few weeks, countless calls, and dogged determination, WON! I am getting a credit on my bill to compensate for the lost income from that week down a few ago that was caused by their error. A credit on the bill isn't quite as good as the check in hand, but I'll take it. ISP idiots. This was totally preventable human error on their part. I've been getting the run around, but kept digging. The front line folks actually told me the supervisors in corporate office didn't have phone numbers and that I couldn't be passed along to them. Yeah, right. Surprise, there are in fact supervisors in corporate, and they do in fact have phones. :) I have a long fuse, but if you do really get me mad, I'm a bulldog.

Thanks for all the reviews.

Meanwhile, last episode, our favorite psychiatrist had gone out for a run . . .

(H/C)

Jensen drove over to the jogging park near PPTH that he had discovered and used a few times during Mark's hospitalization. Tonight, he wanted a solid track underneath his feet without having to worry about intersections and traffic. He wanted to push himself.

The running worked its unfailing magic, steadying his thoughts, smoothing off the day's rough edges in the pounding rhythm of feet. The sun had just set, although of course it wasn't as late as it seemed to him after the long day in court, but it wasn't dark yet, and several people were still enjoying the park. He ran lost in himself, automatically adjusting around others as he passed them. Finally, when his body started to near the limit, he pushed it just a little more, then dropped to a walk, feeling the sweat running down his face, feeling his breathing steady and slow, enjoying the sweet satisfaction of physical effort. He thought of House, familiar with all this yet deprived forever of it by medical error. The horrible unfairness of it struck him again. Of course, life wasn't fair, and Jensen knew that as well as anyone. Still, once in a while, you _wished_ in a specific area that it could be. He walked on in the fading light, cooling off slowly and letting himself feel fully right now the regrets and sympathy that he couldn't display openly around House.

It was then, with his thoughts already firmly centered on House and his body on autopilot, mostly tuning out his surroundings, that he abruptly recognized the man sitting at a picnic table as he was almost past him. Jensen startled slightly, and Thomas Thornton, who had been studying his approach intently anyway, comparing full-suited version to T-shirt, sweats, and tennis shoes, stood up and moved out onto the path in front of him, blocking the way with strength of personality more than as a physical barrier. "You were with him," he said. "You're one of his close friends who had been waiting with him before he came into the courtroom."

"Yes," Jensen admitted. It hadn't been a question. "He's my friend."

Thornton turned to look across the park to the hospital. He had been sitting here watching it, as close to his son's life as he was allowed to get right now, envying the others who pulled up in the circle drive and walked through the automatic doors in unrestricted entrance. "It speaks well for him that he has so many friends with him through this case."

"He's special," Jensen agreed.

Thornton sighed and gestured toward the picnic table. "Could we talk for a minute?"

Jensen hesitated. "He needs to make _his_ decision about you. I can't interfere with that."

"I'm not asking you to. I just . . . since he doesn't want to talk to me at the moment, I'd at least like to talk to somebody who knows him well for a little while, even if all we discuss is the weather. It's one step closer to him, anyway."

Jensen ran a quick mental differential on this kettle of fish. He had his own curiosity, and he knew that House did, too, actually, even if he wasn't openly admitting it. House wouldn't mind a chance at more information provided it was one-sided, but Jensen couldn't give Thornton anything in return. House was probably chemically unreachable at the moment for a vote. Did he trust Jensen enough by now? Two years ago, the psychiatrist would have walked on instantly, but it wasn't two years ago any longer. "I can't be your informant, either. You're not getting anything out of me."

"So don't answer questions if you don't want to. You've had a good, hard run, too; you could probably use a rest. What's the harm in sitting down for a minute?"

The psychiatrist was suddenly struck by what Cuddy had described, the similarity between this man and House. Physically it was there but even more sometimes in maneuvering and thought processes. There was no shortage of intelligence in Thornton's eyes, and Jensen suspected that he also was expert at getting what he wanted, albeit without quite as many of House's sharper edges that had been honed by years of insecurity and defensiveness.

He sat down and took a long drink from his water bottle. "Okay, I'm sitting. As for the weather, it's been hot lately. Not surprising, since it's July. I did hear there was a chance of rain by the weekend."

Thornton gave him an appreciative smile, scoring the point, and sat down with the solid table a barrier between them. "I'm Thomas Thornton." He waited expectantly.

Jensen debated whether this man might actually search through professional directories and decided that yes, he could see him doing that, especially while shut out of primary contact. "Let's just say I'm a friend of his."

Thornton didn't push for a name, jumping promptly to the central subject. "How is he? I know that was a shock to him last night. That really wasn't how I planned to introduce myself."

Jensen believed him there but stuck to his guns. "I'm not giving you information on him without his permission."

"But you aren't calling him to ask for it, either. You don't want to bother him tonight, do you? Is he all right? I was watching court from the other room. That attorney this afternoon, going after him on _my_ mistakes. I thought of marching straight over there to offer to testify myself since he brought it up and telling him a few unedited truths, but making a scene in court wouldn't help Greg any and might just embarrass him more. Can't change the past, after all. But Greg looked worn out by the end. I was worried for him." The concern in his voice and eyes was real; that wasn't just a manipulating tool. This man was very quick to build things together into conclusions, though. Jensen reminded himself to be careful. This conversation was a whole different species from Jensen's occasional encounters with Blythe.

"He's just tired. And no, I'm not going to bother him tonight, but I _am_ going to tell him tomorrow the first chance I get that I ran into you. He gets confidentiality; you don't. So beware what you say, because you _will_ annoy him even more if you try to take advantage of a purely chance meeting."

"So anything I say can be used against me. Fair enough; I'll consider the warning read." Thornton studied him, and Jensen met the look squarely, curiosity to curiosity. He had a brief sense of playing chess with Mark, of being up against a worthy opponent. "Since you're his friend, don't you want to ask me anything yourself? Like where have I been for 50 years, why come forward now, what the hell do I want, things like that?"

"I've wondered," Jensen admitted.

"What did he say to you about me? Wait, let me guess. You aren't going to answer that." Jensen smiled at him but as predicted did not answer. "I'll tell you anyway. The reason I'm here now is that I just found out last week about John's activities, and I came to hear the trial and see if the media was blowing things out of proportion."

"I will tell you that they aren't," Jensen replied. "Not in this case."

"I worked out that much already." Thornton shook his head. "It's unbelievable."

"I wouldn't phrase it like that to him."

"No, of course not. That's not what I meant. As for where have I been all his life, I _have_ always kept tabs on him from a distance, up until about three years ago. It wasn't that I wasn't interested in him. But I really didn't know what was going on with John. Greg was raised as his son, and I didn't realize anybody except Blythe knew otherwise, so I stayed as just a family friend who visited occasionally."

"So that's your defense? You never knew what was going on?" It was a subtle test on Jensen's part, trying to get the measure of the man across the table.

Thornton looked over at the brightly lit entrance to the hospital in the summer dusk. So near, so out of reach. His shoulders drooped. "I haven't got a defense," he admitted. "I missed all of it. I don't blame him for being mad at me. I even missed everything that's happened to him in the last three years since John's funeral. I could have timed this a lot better if I'd known, but I only realized what was going on last week when I read a newspaper story about the trial. I had no idea he was married now or that he had girls." He trailed off into thought, then looked back to Jensen after a moment. "You must know his daughters. He said that one of them was very premature. Is she doing all right now? Any permanent effects from her rough start?"

"I'm not giving you any information about them. That _definitely_ needs to come from him."

"Not even their names?" Thornton asked. "They're my granddaughters, after all." Jensen was unyielding, and after a moment, Thornton sighed. "You're probably right. I'd love to meet them, but there's so much to talk through with Greg. Assuming he ever decides to talk to me, that is. I'd like to get to know _him_, not just them."

"I will give you a piece of free advice," Jensen offered. "Don't push him on this. He needs to think about things; if you try to hurry him up, it will backfire on you. And yes, you need to deal with him first before bringing the girls into it. Don't go after them too quickly. That's the wrong entrance to start with into his life."

Thornton nodded. "I know. Like I said, I can't blame him for being mad at me, and I'm sure he's very protective of his daughters, given what he went through. I do realize the dangers of trying to do things too quickly; again, all this is _not_ what I intended to happen. It wasn't supposed to be abrupt. I had no idea he even knew I was his biological father, and I didn't think he'd spot just an intermittent friend of his parents in the back of that crowd. I was just thinking earlier tonight of the whole life we've missed if I'd only realized. I would have gotten him out of there somehow. He could have known his brother. He did have a brother, but I was careful over the years never to take my other son with me when I visited John and Blythe. Those two side by side as kids would have been a dead giveaway." He pulled out his wallet and handed the picture of the two of them on horseback to Jensen.

Jensen studied it. Definite physical similarities; he never would have taken this as a picture of House, but there was no denying some sort of close relationship. There were clearly no issues between this father and son. The son was grown in this picture, childhood long past, but they still looked like friends, like family. Jensen wished House had had a chance to know something like this. Of course, now he did, through his girls and his new family. It had come decades too late, but that was still much better than never. "Is he dead?" Jensen asked, noting the past tense.

"Killed in a car accident," Thornton confirmed.

"I'm sorry," Jensen said, remembering his own father's sudden death in a car accident.

Thornton tucked the picture back in, then held out the one of him and his wife. "My wife died a year ago. Her extended illness and then me getting my head on straight afterward are why I hadn't followed things with Greg the last three years. That drained all of my energy; I just couldn't think about anything else for a while. I'm so _glad_ he's got a real family now. His wife is quite a woman."

"I wouldn't try pushing _her_ too far, either."

"I could tell that." A glimmer of humor shone through the regrets briefly. Jensen had a feeling that when he wasn't rocked by grief or the shocking revelations that had followed hard on its heels in the last week, this man would have quite a playful streak in him, though with compassion keeping it from getting too far out of bounds. Sympathy stabbed through the psychiatrist. Thornton sounded like he had had a very stressful last few years himself, and there was also the impression that his family was gone now, at least his immediate family, other than the son who was furious at him for missing the past that he hadn't known about.

"Do you have any other family?" Jensen asked, probing a little.

The expression answered before the words did. "Not anymore. My parents are long gone, of course. My father was a concert pianist, by the way. Greg said he was playing the piano at a wedding, and Blythe had often mentioned his musical talent. It skipped a generation - I can't find notes with a map or carry a tune in a bucket myself - but he gets that from my side. He has my father's eyes, too. That specific shade of blue; it's unmistakable. As for other family, I had two siblings, both dead now. My other son's wife died with him in the same car crash. They couldn't have kids. And then my wife. . ."

He trailed off. That wound was still very painful, though not quite as raw as it once had been. The last year of "getting his head on straight" had helped him to start to focus on the good memories, Jensen thought, though he obviously would always miss her deeply. The picture spoke volumes: A true partnership of soul mates. The psychiatrist wondered what House would have been like raised with that set of parents instead of the monster and the ostrich, as Jensen had once referred to them in an unguarded moment.

Thornton looked at the picture of his wife again himself, then put it away and wordlessly offered the third one across the table. Jensen picked it up and looked at House's second birthday party. He had never seen a picture of House this young, but he would have recognized him instantly even without Thornton's regretful expression as he handed the picture over. He looked _analytical_, even as a toddler, not just living in the moment as many kids at that age are. In fact, he looked quite a bit like Abby in the face. Rather, of course, Abby looked like him. The fact that House had once _had_ birthday parties was jolting, as was the clear pride on John's face. A whole volume of unexplored questions lay behind this picture, as if House didn't have enough to deal with already just now.

"I wouldn't be too quick to show him that picture," Jensen suggested. "Don't start there." The psychiatrist was positive that House didn't remember this reality, whether just by being too young or by repression. House had told him before on questioning that his earliest memories were of John _watching_ him. Not doing anything yet, just running an intense differential on him, no affection attached. He did remember the physical abuse starting, but he didn't recall a happy family before that. House didn't need to be hit over the head with the shock of seeing this picture while dealing with so much else acutely, and he needed to process his anger toward Thornton first before dealing with new facts on John. Break it down into pieces, one step at a time, and given the choice, always prioritize what involves living people over the dead. Still, Jensen knew they had some interesting sessions ahead both in the short and longer term.

"I realize that. I mentioned at one point last night that I hadn't claimed him because I thought it was better that he was with John, and he totally blew up. Which I understand, from his point of view. I shouldn't have put it like that. _This_ is how I meant it, what I was thinking of when I made that decision, but of course, he can't relate to that. It's almost a different world. So far away from his testimony. But that picture shows a big part of the reason I was slow to pick up on changes and why I stayed in the background after Blythe got pregnant. John adored him at first. He was so proud to finally have a son; they'd been trying for a while. He treated Blythe like a treasure while she was pregnant. Not that I ever saw him mistreat her, but he wasn't the demonstrative type at all. Only for that little period of time, he _was_."

Thornton looked across at the hospital again, his blue eyes full of the kind of pain that could never be treated there. "Because of those first couple of years, that was the - the base assumption that I built on thinking about him and Greg. Probably his mother did, too; I imagine it was the best period of her marriage. John really was _happy_ for a while, happier than I'd ever known him. I was transferred to separate bases after her pregnancy and Greg's first year, and _this_ is what I had had constant exposure to first hand. I was only able to visit intermittently after that. I'm not offering that as an excuse for myself, just an inadequate explanation. You get to thinking about something one way over a few years, and you aren't considering turning it 180 degrees suddenly."

Jensen nodded. "I can understand that." He landed a subtle emphasis on the word I; hopefully Thornton would remember the point. The psychiatrist had gone as far as he could go in this conversation. House was going to have to come to terms with this man first, get to know him in the present, not jump straight into explanations, even if understandable, of the past. Any attempt to visit the past from a different angle as a first move would only annoy House, as Thornton apparently had discovered last night. Jensen could understand Thornton's circumstances from a distance a lot better than Blythe's, especially given this foundation, but it also gave possibly more insight into Blythe. It was the happiest time of her marriage, he had said; a not-too-intelligent and fairly naive woman might well mentally choose to continue living in that moment rather than admit the disappointment and lack of fulfillment with her husband. Not that that excused at all her missing her son's ordeal over the years. But as far as House and Thornton, that much anger, especially long-buried anger, took on a life of its own and did not answer fully to logic. House would have to process it as feeling, something he hated doing, but there was no way out of it. The insight into Thornton's view of the past could come later and would be far better received then.

Thornton took the picture back, studying it himself. "Yes, there was tension starting not long after this and building, and there were injuries. I noticed the strain between them even with my infrequent visits. But I never put it together." He shook his head. "I should have. John was . . . even in boot camp, before he married, I could tell that he had a lot of anger inside. I saw him a time or two in a rage at something - always an object, never a person, but the potential was there. It was a _controlled_ rage, though. He was frightening at times. If something really annoyed him, he could plot out a campaign against it, _crushing_ it systematically, forcing it into submission, almost like it _was_ a person who had deliberately challenged him. He never mentioned his background or parents, and we learned not to ask."

"In retrospect, yes, I can see him taking it out on Greg once he found out he wasn't his son after all. I should have seen the danger signs. But how could anyone ever suspect things like that carpet glue story? I thought I was going to have to go out to the restroom to get sick, but as long as he had to sit up there saying it, I thought I should have to keep listening. I set this all in motion in a way. But I swear, I had no idea." He tucked the picture away. "Just tell him . . . no. You're right. I need to be talking to him myself, if he ever decides to. Just tell him we bumped into each other and that you didn't give me details. Which is true. I would hate to play poker against you."

Jensen smiled at him. "I wish you luck. Truly. If my opinion counted, I'd like for him to get to know you. But I won't give that opinion unless he asks for it. It's his decision."

At that moment, Jensen's cell phone rang, and he pulled it out. It was Mark. He could have simply hit on and then off, and Mark would have accepted it and waited for him to call back when he got a chance, but he answered. It was a nice ticket out of a conversation that had gone as far as it needed to go. "Hi, big brother," he said.

Mark was openly curious. "Michael, _what_ are you doing?"

"Playing chess, sort of. Pretty close anyway." Jensen stood up and nodded to Thornton, formally ending the conversation, then walked on down the track into the dusk, talking to his brother about how the trial was going, even if that, too, was an edited version.

Thornton sat looking after him, the still-unnamed friend who had been in the tightest inner circle for his son in court yesterday and no doubt today, though the closed-circuit camera hadn't been angled to catch anything except the very front of the room. Free advice, this man had said. I'll give you a piece of free advice. As opposed to paid-for advice, and he had also used the term confidentiality like it was second nature. The man was also a spectacular listener with an attitude that irresistibly drew people into talking to him. Thornton had figured out well before the end of that conversation whom he had just met. Clearly, though, this was a friend and not just a therapist; he was protective of Greg far beyond professional motives. Thornton was glad Greg had friends like this in his life. He wondered if there was any chance that he could ever be counted among them. Putting his wallet with the pictures back up, Thornton came to his feet and walked across to the concession stand before it closed to buy himself a chocolate milkshake, another limited, one-sided grasp at connection. His son liked them.


	17. Chapter 17

Jensen took the first possible chance for informing House Thursday morning. Cuddy had just gone to take a shower, the girls weren't awake yet, and House was sitting at the kitchen table working on his morning coffee. The psychiatrist had intended to stay totally off the subject of his biological father until after the testimony was over, but he knew that keeping this latest event to himself even temporarily would be a mistake.

"Something interesting happened while I was out running last night," he said, dropping into the chair across the table with his own coffee cup.

House looked up with a jolt of wakefulness not provided by caffeine. "Did somebody try to attack you?"

Jensen heard the genuine concern and quickly reassured him. "No, nothing like that. I'm fine."

House looked down at his coffee, half ashamed to be caught caring. "I don't trust that defense attorney," he stated, trying to provide a logical basis for his inquiry.

"I don't, either, but I doubt he'd get physical, even secondarily. He's more the type for mental dirty tricks. Even so, just in case I'm wrong, I have been sticking to populated areas deliberately. No jogging in dark alleys. I really think he's too much of a coward to attack somebody or even order it, though."

House relaxed a little as he wasn't ridiculed for having worried in the first place. Jensen actually was touched that House got distracted even from curiosity by concern, but he knew better than to park there. "About what _did_ happen last night." House's attention immediately sharpened as Jensen paused to make sure he had him focused. The psychiatrist wanted to watch his reaction very closely here. "I bumped into Thomas Thornton."

House tightened up as the embers flared up in his eyes. He was still mad - furious, in fact - at Thornton. At least he thought he was mad at Thornton. Jensen couldn't help continuing to analyze that on one track, plotting out future sessions. What he _wasn't_, thankfully, was mad at Jensen, at least not immediately. The psychiatrist relaxed himself somewhat. He'd thought he'd predicted House's reaction right last night, but the consequences if he had been wrong were large. "He was in the jogging park next to the hospital."

House nodded. "We went there Tuesday night to talk." He was trying to minimize his reaction to the man now, trying not to give things away to Jensen, even as well as he knew him at this point. "You went clear over there to run? Steady track, no cars," he said, answering his own question before Jensen could.

"Exactly. I was mad at the defense attorney. I needed to run a few things out."

House looked wistful momentarily, remembering running things out, but then his curiosity kicked in on a different part of the answer. "What were _you_ mad at him for? I was the one on the stand."

"The whole cross-examination," Jensen answered. "He was making things difficult for my friend, and he was trying to warp the entire therapeutic process and use it to belittle you and devalue your testimony. Which did _not_ work, by the way. I was watching the jury, too. They were as disgusted with him as I was. But he tried, and he was attacking you. That did make me mad."

House looked bewildered momentarily, then predictably switched the subject, going for another open topic. "So he was running there too? You two have a nice jog together? Or was it a race? You'd better have won, if it was. He's got to have about 35 years on you." He didn't, Jensen noted, call Thornton his father. He didn't call him anything at the moment. John may have finally no longer been his "father," but that position was now vacant.

"No race. He was sitting at a picnic table watching the hospital, and he recognized me from court. We talked for a while. As for who won, I'd say I did, but he put up a good effort."

House debated that, weighing whether to trust the assessment or not. Jensen waited him out. "His idea to talk," House said finally, tentatively. It was a question he was afraid to ask. If Jensen had proposed a conversation with the other man when House conveniently wasn't around . . .

"Definitely his idea," Jensen agreed.

"He wanted information." That wasn't even an implied question.

"He did, but I was very careful not to give him any details. I told him up front I wouldn't be his informant. He didn't even get my name, nor the girls' names."

House straightened up a little at the mention of the girls. "He tried to get details on them, then?"

"Yes, he did, as well as on you. But he was unsuccessful, and he backed off after the first few efforts and respected that I wasn't going to tell him anything."

House shook his head, annoyed. "Trying to come in the _back_ door. He doesn't want me; he wants instant grandkids to go." There was an unspoken challenge in the tone, waiting for Jensen to argue with him. The psychiatrist left it alone. They did not need to have a session right now, not while the witness stand was still looming. House would need all his energy for that today. They could really dissect his issues with Thornton in due time.

House left the challenge after a moment, spending a little while in private differential of his coffee cup. Jensen got both of them a refill after a few minutes, and House looked up suddenly as a new thought struck him. "So what did _you_ get out of _him_?" If Jensen had agreed to the conversation but hadn't given any information, the flow of data must have gone the other way.

Jensen smiled at him and sat back down. House was, as he'd suspected, curious about the man in spite of himself. "Now _that_ was interesting. We'll talk about it more when we really have time, but he did get into some of his background."

"Making excuses," House muttered.

Again, Jensen didn't pick up the argument nor defend Thornton. "One thing he said that I thought was quite interesting was that his father was a concert pianist."

House hadn't known that, and the real interest in this data nudged aside the anger briefly. "What was his name?"

"I didn't ask, but it should be easy enough to find out. Can't be too many concert pianists from that era named something Thornton."

"I always wondered where the music came from," House said thoughtfully. "John was vehemently _non_musical. It was sissy, a waste of time, and everything else unmilitary." House grinned suddenly. "I once started a hell of an argument with him by pointing out that the Marines had a band and that it was an honored assignment. Mom, now, could sing a little, just lullabies or such, but she wasn't great at it, and nobody in her family had serious talent. She would have mentioned it. That's the one thing she really stood up to John about, me getting piano lessons."

"According to Thornton, it skipped a generation. He said he isn't musical at all, but he truly appreciated the gift. You could tell from the tone. I even wondered if he turned to military life to try to find something he _was_ good at, since he was unable to follow in his father's footsteps."

House considered that, then dodged again. "What else did he tell you?"

"He talked about his other son - your brother. Also about his wife. She had an extended illness and then died a year ago, and he spent a year dealing with that and getting down to living again."

"Yeah, he said that to me. That was his reason for missing everything lately. He had other reasons for missing everything before, of course. I'm sure he has an explanation right on the tip of his tongue for all of his screw-ups. At least I know he's still in Princeton now. I wondered when that idiot defense attorney was asking his name if he was even still around and available to testify or if he'd skipped out again."

"He was watching from the other room the whole day," Jensen confirmed. "He said he thought about coming over then himself and telling Stevenson a few things, but then he thought making a public scene in the courtroom wouldn't help anything and might embarrass you more."

House snorted. "Right. Like he would ever stand up for me. That ship left port a long time ago." He drained the last of his coffee and stood up firmly, the dramatic effect diminished slightly by his wince. "Well, this has been a fascinating coffee conversation this morning, but I've got to go get ready to testify against Patrick." He limped out decisively, and Jensen sat there lost in thought, finishing his own second cup.

"Is everything okay?" Cuddy asked, and the psychiatrist jumped. He hadn't heard her approach. "Greg seemed . . . a little odd. He's back taking his shower now."

"I bumped into Thomas Thornton last night in the jogging park after my run," Jensen said.

She immediately understood. "You needed to tell him that right away."

"Yes. That much couldn't be put off. He deserved to know."

Cuddy nodded and picked up House's empty coffee cup, left on the table. As she took it to the sink, she asked the question that House hadn't. "What did you think of Thornton?"

"I liked him," Jensen replied. "And yes, they are a _lot_ alike."

"Do you think there's any chance here? I mean, I know it's up to Greg, and I'll support him in that, whatever he decides, but I felt so sorry for Thornton. He really seemed a lot better than Blythe, even if he managed to miss it all unintentionally."

Jensen weighed the previous conversation, the genuine curiosity - and the fury. "I hope so," he said finally. He didn't point out the obvious, that there was a lot to work through before then. Cuddy already knew that. Getting up, he rinsed out his own coffee cup and then headed to the guest room to get ready for the day in court.


	18. Chapter 18

Stevenson started off swiftly to the attack on Thursday morning. He knew House had been getting both tired and rattled on Wednesday afternoon before the judge annoyingly intervened. This morning, the witness looked far too resolute as he took the stand again, and even if tiredness could not be prompted so easily, getting rattled probably could. "Dr. House," the defense attorney asked, "are you being paid for your testimony at this trial?"

Martin had anticipated that that might come up. The trouble was, either answer could be poked at in an effort to diminish the merit of his testimony. If House wasn't being paid, then he was sacrificing several days of income to help get Chandler, adding to the theory that he was driven by anger at the other man. If he was being paid, however, that could also be used against him, a paid gun being seen as less sincere at times in the public eye. "Yes," House replied succinctly. He had in fact offered to testify for free, but Martin had insisted that he deserved the usual state expert witness rate, and Cuddy had sided with him.

"You _are_. Interesting." Stevenson drew that word out, assigning all sorts of unspoken subtext to it. "How much are you being paid?"

Martin stood up. "Your Honor, Dr. House is being paid the standard medical expert witness fee by the state. I don't see how the amount matters. If it did, that question could have been asked to a few other witnesses, too, such as Dr. Cranston, who was also paid." Martin didn't really want the jury, also being paid but not at a medical expert testimony scale, to hear that answer. That could set up unwanted comparisons with their own "salary" for being participants in this trial. The jury liked House right now; no point in emphasizing that he was even at this moment making well more than they were.

The judge considered. "Mr. Stevenson, just _how_ do you suggest that the precise amount Dr. House is being paid is relevant?"

"Is it less than he would have been earning at his practice in the same time?" Stevenson asked. "That goes to show other emotions carried along with his testimony, such as resentment against my client."

The judge shook his head. "No, Mr. Stevenson. The jury will note that it is absolutely customary to pay expert witnesses for their time in big trials and that other witnesses in this particular trial have also been paid. There is nothing unusual about it."

Martin suddenly smiled, seeing another possible angle. "Your Honor, if my opponent truly wishes to open that topic, I will withdraw my objection - provided that I may ask the same question and also get a specific dollar-amount answer when cross-examining the _defense's_ psychiatric expert witness. I'm quite sure he is also being paid, and paid very well, actually." The defense expenses in a big case were not bound by the state's handicap of being answerable to the taxpayers. Chandler actually did have some money, both inherited and earned in his job as a daytrader before he went to jail. He wasn't a multimillionaire, but Martin had no doubt that a psychiatrist who would testify on his behalf would be extremely well rewarded for it. Emphasizing the difference there would raise eyebrows on the jury, condemn the defense's expert as a mere hired gun, and was worth reminding them how little jury duty paid.

A ripple of amusement ran over the court. Stevenson yielded, saving what he could from a bad situation. "I will withdraw the question." Martin sat back down, and Stevenson turned on House again. "So you are being paid for your testimony. Can you honestly tell me that you have no added motivation beyond that paycheck for your testimony against my client?"

"I'm testifying to the truth," House said. "It's true that I'm not doing this _because _of the money; I'm doing it for Christopher and the other children. But the truth does not change according to what kind of price tag is offered for it. That's a mistake I see a lot in medical practice, people thinking that due solely to their bank accounts, their illness automatically should have a higher priority than the next patient's. It makes no difference to me whether my current patient is Rockefeller or homeless; what matters is finding his true diagnosis. What matters in court today is the truth, and that is what I am telling, regardless of how much or how little I might be paid for being here."

"But this testimony is also partly a way to get revenge on my client for what he did to you, is it not?"

"What he did to me wasn't nearly as bad as what he did to _them_, and I could - and did - defend myself. They couldn't. This isn't revenge for myself on Patrick."

The jury liked those answers. Stevenson did not. He changed angles, selecting a knife stroke that he knew would go home. "But you are getting paid for this by the state. Tell me, Dr. House, is the state also paying your psychiatrist since you needed him here to get you through this?" Stevenson looked over at Jensen.

House straightened up with a leg-jarring jolt, his eyes igniting, too stunned for a moment at the blow to snap off an immediate response. A few heads turned, following Stevenson's gaze, trying to pick out which one was the psychiatrist. Martin started to his feet, but the judge intervened before the objection was even voiced. "Mr. Stevenson! One more snide remark like that, and I will find you in contempt of court. That was extreme misuse of cross. The jury will disregard that question, and the defense attorney will get on quickly to _relevant _lines in this case. But first, apologize to the witness." Stevenson stared at the bench with the expression of a child ordered to apologize to his sibling. "Apologize for asking that question," the judge insisted.

Stevenson clenched his teeth. "I apologize," he said, summoning about as much sincerity as the child might have in front of the parental eye.

"Now, get on to issues concerning your client. If you have any other comments on Dr. House's personal background, they had better be new ones not already covered so far and also directly relevant to your client's defense." The judge leaned back in his chair, but he was watching Stevenson like a hawk now.

House took a deep breath, trying to push the anger back down. His leg hadn't liked that jolt, either. Jensen was furious himself at that question, the more so because he knew that it would resurface later for House to debate with himself. Jensen was _not_ being paid for this week, nor had he asked to be. House had not been forced to openly admit the gift until now, and accepting it without openly admitting it was easier for him. Cuddy, next to the psychiatrist, was blazingly angry herself. Martin caught House's eye and looked from Stevenson to the judge, trying to calm his witness down again. The one positive out of that was that Stevenson had hit the limit of judicial tolerance. He would have to be very careful in questioning from here on. He definitely hadn't scored any points with the jury by that stunt, either.

Stevenson turned the topic to Patrick directly, realizing the mood in the court right now. He had hoped to annoy House as much as the other afternoon on direct; he knew now that the man had a temper and could lose it completely and pay more attention to that fact than his testimony. House was indeed mad right now, but the control still held, and Stevenson had to walk carefully in front of the judge. Damn the man. That hadn't worked out as hoped. "Dr. House, at the wedding rehearsal when you first met my client, how suspicious was he acting?"

"He wasn't acting suspicious," House conceded.

"He wasn't? You mean he was acting just like any normal person at a social function?" Stevenson pushed a little, hoping to get House to expand his answers too far and get called down by the judge himself.

"Yes, he was."

"And you noticed him when he, what was it, he reached for a roll, correct?"

"Yes."

"Not at all a sinister act. And yet you _immediately_ thought he was an abusive monster?"

House was putting up a good fight against what he really wanted to say. Again, all that practice cross-examination helped; they had had a few rounds where he gave only the sarcastic retorts he longed to, just to get the satisfaction of those out of his system. "I immediately thought that his hands, that the _attitude_ of his hands reminded me of John."

"Ah, yes, your father." Stevenson emphasized the title. House looked back at Cuddy. She and Jensen both looked mad enough right now that it almost distracted House from his own anger. "Now when you concluded that he reminded you of your father, you knew no actual facts about him yet. Correct?"

"Yes."

House was a little steadier than a minute ago. How the hell had he regathered himself on this line of questioning? Stevenson wished he could push a little harder, but he was aware of the judge watching closely. "You knew no background?"

"No, I didn't."

"No name?"

"No."

"No past crimes?"

"No."

"You were _entirely_ basing your suspicion of my client at that moment on the resemblance of his hands to your father's?"

House thought around that one for a second. "_At that moment_, yes. I didn't have any proof yet."

Stevenson concealed his flinch. The second half of that answer undid all the gain of the first, reminding the jury of how much physical evidence had turned up later once House started looking. "Right. You did not have any proof, and you still had suspicions based on nothing more than your past."

"No, they weren't _just_ based on my past. They were based on the attitude of his hands. Patrick _did_ contribute to the assessment of him."

The judge looked at his watch, a silent reminder to the defense attorney that he needed to maintain forward motion. "Have you ever run into anybody else who reminded you strongly of your father in attitude, Dr. House?"

"A time or two, very rarely, but never immediately like that night."

"And did _all_ of those other people who unfortunately happened to remind you of your father later turn out in fact to be criminally inclined?"

"Yes," House said, enjoying the answer, which wasn't the one Stevenson had hoped for. Someone in the courtroom snickered, and the judicial glare promptly refocused in that direction.

Stevenson did his best to regroup, changing angles again. "Did you actually speak to my client that night?"

"No."

"So there was no direct communication between you?"

"Nothing beyond a look. I was staring at his hands, and he gave me a 'what is your problem' look. But we never spoke."

"And then, based on no more evidence than his having committed the crime of picking up a roll in front of you, you told your psychiatrist you suspected him of abuse."

"I told him it was a possibility and to watch out for his daughter if they ever encountered Patrick again."

"And you told him you thought your mind might be playing tricks on you."

House looked back at Cuddy. "I was just emphasizing by that that there was no direct proof yet."

"Odd, Dr. House, but I don't consider the statements, 'I have no direct proof' and 'I think my mind might be playing tricks on me' to be interchangeable. You _realized_, did you not, that you were upset, had been reminded of your unfortunate past, and that that might be influencing your judgment?"

House shook his head. "No, I was just doing my best to both warn him for his daughter's sake and emphasize that I didn't know any facts yet on Patrick."

"But you were upset and fighting memories when you used that phrase to him, weren't you?"

"Not at that stage. I had already dealt with the memories of John that had been stirred up that night on my own after meeting Patrick. I wasn't wrapped up in memories when I spoke to my psychiatrist."

Stevenson took the small mystery there. Never a good idea to ask a question you didn't know the answer to, but on cross, you sometimes couldn't help it, and he was looking for any crack in House's armor that might be widened in front of the jury. "You had already dealt with the memories on your own. How did you do that?"

"I went up to the chapel, which was empty at that point, and played the piano for a while." House abruptly wondered again about his grandfather, the concert pianist. His _biological grandfather_, that was.

Nothing in piano playing to exploit. Stevenson changed gears. "So several months later, when you met my client again. . ."

The judge interrupted. "Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson, but this seems like an excellent spot for the court to take a recess. Court will resume in 30 minutes." It was a little early, but House had had a hard session already so far, and the judge knew he had annoyed his leg earlier at that one question. He was rubbing it absentmindedly now and then since that point.

Stevenson turned for a quick word with Patrick before the guards walked him out the side door. House stood stiffly and exited the box. "Well done," Martin said to him. "Good job letting others fight it out at that one question instead of jumping in."

"Yeah," House said. That hadn't been self-control, just shock. He walked on past to Cuddy, Jensen, and Wilson. His eyes hesitated on Jensen, searching, remembering that comment about getting paid. Jensen still looked mad, though not at House. Had he expected something? Should House have offered?

"Let's go back to Martin's office and take a break," the psychiatrist suggested. He wasn't going to get into that now, but he knew it had as he feared joined the growing line of topics waiting for attention. He smiled at House, trying to convey the warmth behind it.

"Good idea," House said, as if they hadn't done just that for many recesses at this point.

Wilson bumped his non-cane arm as the group exited the courtroom. "That jury is soaking this up, House. Stevenson is hurting his own case."

House relaxed slightly. "They didn't like it either?'

"Not at all. To prison!"

House grinned in reply. "To prison!"

In the overflow room, Thomas Thornton sat back, controlling his own anger and noting the plotting mechanism switch firmly into gear, an almost refreshing feeling even in the current stress. That side of him had been buried under the grief of the last few years with his wife's final battle and death. He welcomed it now as an old friend, glad to find the gears still there and not too rusty. While waiting for Greg's decision, he suddenly had a secondary purpose, though it would have to be handled delicately. He above all couldn't make things worse for Greg, couldn't create a public scene, nothing for the media to grab onto. He didn't even want Greg to know, afraid that his own anger might be seen merely as a manipulating tool, trying to buy himself brownie points. No, this would have to be discreet, but it would also be personal, and whatever he finally decided upon, that much, at least, would be accomplished before he left Princeton. Nobody put his son down like that and got away with it.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger. :) Well, not really. But there will be more coming soon. Next chapter concludes the cross-examination, although the verdict on both "trials" underway won't be in yet for several more chapters.

(H/C)

Patrick's attitude was different from the moment he re-entered court after the break. He was hanging back a bit, the guards urging him along, his whole posture with a defiant edge now. After he arrived at the defense table, Stevenson started a conversation with him, too low to catch exact words but obviously intense, the feeling if not the text apparent. They didn't notice the judge's return until the bailiff gave his sharp reminder a second time, and after the judge had resumed the bench, their conference continued. Everybody in the courtroom was already looking that way even before the judge spoke up.

"Mr. Stevenson, court is now in session again. Do you wish to resume your cross-examination, or should I just dismiss the witness?"

Stevenson came to his feet. "I'm sorry, your Honor. Yes, I do want to finish cross, but a complication has come up. Under the stress of the trial, my client has changed personalities during the break."

House rolled his eyes and managed only with great difficulty to bite back the sarcastic retort and say nothing. Martin noted the effort and gave him a smile as he stood up himself. "Why would that have any effect on the trial continuing? All of his alleged personalities are on trial here; if this is the abusive one now, I think it's good that he showed up to hear some of the evidence."

The judge looked back at Stevenson. "Mr. Martin has a point. And clearly, since your client has lived and worked for several decades and been through several relationships, he is capable in any possible form of self-control, or he would have been caught long since. He's just in time to hear the root of Dr. House's evidence."

"Yes, but he wondered what has happened so far," Stevenson explained. "I was trying to update him."

House looked out at his triple cheering squad. Wilson looked like he was fighting to keep from making a few appropriate audible comments himself. Cuddy gave House a smile that privately agreed on the ridiculousness of this effort to distract the jury. Jensen alone looked completely serious and analytical, studying Patrick and Stevenson closely. That was odd, House thought, since he knew the psychiatrist agreed that Patrick's whole "my other personality did it" defense was pure bullshit and a misuse of the mental health system.

"I'll agree to a pause in Dr. House's testimony while the entire record so far is read," Martin suggested, pursuing his own uneasy suspicion about the timing of this.

Stevenson confirmed his fears by immediately backing down. "No, no, that's not necessary. He knows the evidence that was going to be presented, of course. I've had conferences with both of his personalities by now. I was just giving him a quick summary. I wouldn't want to inconvenience Dr. House - or increase the charge to the state - by holding him over while we read the record. I'll be ready to resume in just a minute, your Honor."

Martin sat back down, looking at House now, trying to convey something silently. Probably not to make sarcastic remarks like the earlier one about that fake bewildered look, House thought. He knew that already. He turned to look at the jury, which he wasn't supposed to be doing, but testimony hadn't been resumed yet. They were all watching Patrick with an assorted range of skepticism and interest, skepticism carrying the majority.

Stevenson stood up after a minute and approached House. "I'm sorry for the delay," he said smoothly. House looked back at Cuddy momentarily, but the statement was losing its negative power over the last several months. The reconditioning was working well. "Dr. House, that morning last October when you met my client at the hospital, he _immediately_ reminded you of your father again, right?"

House looked back at him and tensed up suddenly as he realized with slight delay what Martin and Jensen had already suspected as the true purpose of Patrick's conveniently timed "switch." Stevenson was standing carefully positioned so that when House faced him to answer, Patrick was entirely visible to one side of him, and Patrick was looking steadily at House now. The eager, dominant, punishing hands that flexed slightly, almost in anticipation, and the cold eyes above them - yes, _this_ was precisely what had reminded House immediately and so strongly of John, at the wedding rehearsal, at the elevator, and now. This was the last attempt at influencing his testimony, Patrick himself their final weapon and a far more dangerous one than imitation Johns. He remembered how Stevenson had spoken to Patrick just before the recess, no doubt telling him that it was time to play the final card, the ace. "Yes," he answered finally, trying to get a grip on himself. It was Patrick, not John. He had never truly confused them, only been reminded by the similarity. But he could already feel that his pulse had jumped.

Stevenson smiled slightly. House had definitely been rocked there, just from his first glimpse, his answer less firm and his tension level far higher. Patrick had insisted House could be broken this way, pushed into a flashback, and shown to be unstable in front of the jury, but Stevenson had not wanted to use this strategy unless all else failed, as the judge would be able to see things, too. But Patrick had argued that it was House alone who would react to suggestive looks from him. No one else had ever suspected, not in all those years, and no one else would now. Only House's past had given him special insight on the present. Explaining a "personality change" in advance and that Patrick's other self didn't know how the trial was going would be enough of an excuse for increased intensity of attention if anybody else wondered.

"So, Dr. House," the defense attorney said, drawing it out. He was going to enjoy this. "How exactly was it that he reminded you of your father?"


	20. Chapter 20

House took a deep breath. Tell the judge, they had all told him. If any really underhanded strategy that isn't obvious to everyone comes up, tell the judge immediately. Unfortunately, Patrick - he was _sure_ this move was Patrick's idea; it was out of Stevenson's league - had made that impossible. Not only was there no way to do it without proving their point that he couldn't see beyond his past and also without sounding like a whining 5-year-old ("Daddy Judge, he's _looking_ at me!"), but the objection even if made was unwinnable. Patrick had a constitutional right to face the witnesses against him. He was doing nothing wrong by sitting there in court and watching the testimony. If House couldn't take his eyes on him, that legally counted against House, not against Patrick.

Stevenson was still waiting for an answer, an almost predatory look in his eyes. "It was his hands," House said finally. He didn't elaborate, but Patrick's hands flexed sharply in agreement, as if they could feel his body underneath them, dominating and twisting and breaking it, just as John had. The hands were almost magnetic. With an effort, House broke the line of sight and looked away briefly, automatically finding the three in the front row.

They _knew_, he realized suddenly. They knew what Patrick was trying, and so did Martin, but the fact that the prosecutor had not objected only confirmed that there was nothing legally to object to. Still, the knowledge that he wasn't the only one in the courtroom other than Patrick and Stevenson who knew what was going on helped a little. He wasn't alone in the details of this, not like the carpet glue. Cuddy was trying to pass him unspoken strength, the love and pride shining in her eyes along with concern. Jensen passed him something else. As House was looking at them for the moment, the psychiatrist mouthed two words silently: _Watch us_.

House read his lips clearly and understood the message, but he looked away. That seemed so _obvious_, such a cop out, just never to face Patrick. Everybody in the courtroom would notice and think that was odd as long as Stevenson was standing over there. Besides, Patrick would take it as a victory, and he hated giving him the satisfaction. Jensen sighed softly. Stubborn idiot, still wrestling with old habits even now about never showing weakness and fighting his battles alone. Hopefully he would give in before things got too rough.

"His hands," Stevenson repeated. "What about his hands?"

House tried focusing on Stevenson's face, but Patrick was still dominating the background, looking at him in exactly that chilling, private plans way that John had. And with John, too, nobody else had ever noticed. "They were dominating."

"Dominating. Interesting word. And what exactly were they dominating here? An _elevator button_?"

"Yes," House replied, suddenly aware how ridiculously silly that sounded. Don't watch the hands, House. He couldn't help noticing them, though. Too many memories of hands exactly like that.

"So my client walked up, merely pushed an elevator button, and you immediately thought of your abusive father. Don't you think that's a bit of an overreaction, Dr. House?"

"I was _right_," House reminded him.

"Ultimately, yes, but you jumped to this conclusion far before you had any evidence at all. You were already thinking he was like your father before you even knew his name, weren't you?"

"Yes," House admitted. He looked back to Cuddy, Jensen, and Wilson, then away again, and his right hand fastened around the two rings. Patrick was still watching him, the man almost seeming to expand in influence to dominate that whole side of the room.

"Did your father ever commit violence against you somehow using elevator buttons?"

"No, but . . ." Suddenly, House remembered something, one of those long-lost episodes that had been totally suppressed. He _had_ been in an elevator once with John that got stuck as the power failed and the lights went out. The 4-year-old House had been terrified - not of the dark but already, that early, of not being able to see John and watch for any approaching action. John, of course, had taken this as weakness and had spent the whole 10-minute power outage mocking his son, with a few good blows for emphasis, on the middle so that his face would be unmarked. House's eyes found Cuddy as he tried to remind himself it was over.

"But _what_?" Stevenson was all over that interrupted answer.

"It . . . it isn't relevant," House insisted.

Martin came to his feet. "Your Honor, I have to agree. How on earth would the details of yet another episode of abuse from decades ago be relevant to the case against Chandler now? Dr. House has said that it did _not_ involve elevator buttons."

"How do we know it isn't relevant?" Stevenson insisted. "He's the one who thought of it in direct response to that question. There is clearly a connection."

The judge considered. Finally, he turned and scooted closer to the witness stand. "Dr. House, I want you to tell just me, off the record, what the rest of your answer would have been." He dropped his voice. "Nobody else is going to hear it at the moment. Only me."

House turned away from Patrick's demeaning smirk to face the judge, wondering just how pathetic the media and the jury were finding this interaction. The judge didn't look belittling, though. Stern, but there was sympathy in his eyes, too, though at least not pity. Abruptly, House realized that the judge himself had grasped what Patrick was trying to do - and while there was no legal objection to be made, it hadn't won Stevenson any points at all. House's voice was also very low. "I just remembered then an occasion when I was in an elevator with John and the power went out and we were trapped for 10 minutes. He . . . made use of the time. And mocked me for being afraid, of course."

"You _just _remembered? You mean you hadn't remembered that until now?"

House looked down briefly. "Right. Some things I've forgotten until something reminds me of them."

"How old were you then?"

"Four."

The judge couldn't help reacting to that, the sympathy stronger now. "Have you ever had any uneasiness or problem using elevators?"

"No. It wasn't elevators, it was John. I usually used stairs until . . . well, when I still could, but that was just because I enjoyed the effort. Even these days, I've never had an elevator remind me of that." It was Patrick right now, not the thought of elevators, that had brought it back up from the depths.

"So you didn't think of this during Christopher's case at any point last October?"

"No. Not until just now."

"And you've said that that morning at the elevator you were in a great mood while standing there."

"Yes, remembering my daughter's birthday. I wasn't thinking of John at all."

"Thank you, Dr. House." The judge turned to face the room, breaking up the private mini conference. "It is not in any way relevant to the case against your client, Mr. Stevenson. You may continue, but on another question."

Stevenson looked annoyed at a possible break being within reach and then slipping through his grasp. He knew House had been veering off of the present there. Patrick was still watching House steadily, and his expression was so absolutely John that House could almost hear his voice calling him just a weakling. House looked over at his support group for a moment, only looking back to the defense attorney after the next question was completed. "Back to the elevator button, you say my client's hands were _dominating_ when they reached for it. Have you ever in your life pushed an elevator button firmly, Dr. House?"

"Yes."

"More than one time, even?"

"Yes."

"Ever been annoyed at an elevator for not being right there when you wanted it?"

"Yes."

"Fortunately, no one was standing by to immediately think you were abusive just by making such a natural action. So then you got in the elevator with my client?"

"Yes."

"So you were standing there in the elevator with my client, including his _dominating _hands." Stevenson was still pushing the subject of elevators, trying to regain whatever he had been on the brink of a minute ago. "Did he confess to being abusive then?"

"No."

"Did he threaten Christopher?"

"No."

"Did he commit any violence toward you in this elevator?"

House looked back to Cuddy and this time stayed there as he answered. "No."

Stevenson saw the reaction. "He didn't attack you while you were all trapped in the elevator together?"

"No, he didn't."

"Enough of the elevator, Mr. Stevenson," the judge said. "I think you've sufficiently made your point that there was no proof at this point. Move on."

Stevenson hid his annoyance. "When you decided to look into Christopher's case, that was because of your preconceived notions about my client, right?"

House looked back to him - and Patrick, just beyond. "It was because of the medical presentation combined with the presence of Patrick, but I might well have looked into it just on that medical presentation alone. I have before on similar cases."

"So you have a _special_ crusade looking for possible unnoticed cases of abuse?"

"I'm always aware of the possibility with children, as any doctor is supposed to be, but that doesn't mean I'm blinded to medical facts that don't support it."

"But when you entered Christopher's room, you were already thinking that my client reminded you of your father?"

"Yes."

"Now in the room, you have said that Christopher was terrified. Did anybody else notice this?"

"Aside from Patrick, no. I'm sure he enjoyed it."

"Don't tell us what Mr. Chandler was feeling, Dr. House," the judge put in before Stevenson could object, but it was a mild rebuke, just going through a formality.

"But even the boy's own mother did not apparently realize anything was going on. You were the only one in the room with suspicions, correct?"

"No, _Christopher_ had suspicions and didn't trust him. _That_ was what tipped the balance and convinced me; I wasn't acting from my own memories."

"Ah, yes, this fact that only you put together that he was terrified. How did he show that?"

"He kept watching Patrick." Watching Patrick was getting to be too much, and House looked away again.

"Did Christopher state he was being mistreated?"

"No. He was afraid to say anything. He didn't even want to tell us how he felt physically."

"And what conclusion did you draw from that, Dr. House?"

House looked back, but only briefly. Patrick's hands were flexing again. He turned away. "I think he had been threatened of consequences if he told anyone Patrick had been hurting him."

"You thought that because your father threatened you, correct?"

"That plus Christopher's reaction, yes."

"But nobody else saw this reaction of Christopher's. The reason _you_ noticed it is that you thought you recognized it, right?"

"Yes," House admitted after a moment.

"Did you ever see my client assault Christopher?"

"No." House added the tag silently. _He wouldn't do it in front of witnesses, you moron._ Just as John hadn't. But those private conversations in a crowd, as between Christopher and Patrick, had been almost a game to John.

Patrick. We're after Patrick. Don't think about John.

Stevenson moved over, trying to draw House's eyes back to himself so he could subtly get him aligned correctly again. The witness was gradually looking more at his wife and psychiatrist and less at Chandler as questioning progressed. Stevenson changed lines a bit to something less Patrick-centric to try to reclaim his focus.

"Now down to the point where my client assaulted you. Have you _ever_ had anyone assault you at work, Dr. House?"

Patrick had to have gotten that from Andrews. "Yes, a few times."

"And were all of those people under CPS investigation?"

"No."

"So it is _common_ for people to assault you in the hospital?"

"It's not common, but it has happened."

"Multiple times?"

"Yes."

"Why have people regularly assaulted you?"

"It wasn't regularly. But most of them were family whom I had told something they didn't like."

"So actually they were provoked by you?"

"In every case, they were the ones to move it on to physical. I was after the truth, for medical diagnostic reasons. They didn't always like facts that turned up along the way."

"What sort of facts, Dr. House?"

"That people were cheating on each other, for instance. Very medically relevant, but people do get mad when you raise the question."

"So in assaulting you in the heat of the moment after learning of the CPS investigation, my client was only doing something similar to what _many_ other people had done in the past?"

"Yes."

"Do most doctors at the hospital get assaulted regularly?"

"It isn't regularly."

"But do _you_ get assaulted more than any other doctor in the hospital?"

Only one answer to that. "Yes." House was looking at Stevenson again now, and Stevenson inched sideways, trying to draw him back into visual line with Patrick. Unfortunately for him, the judge intervened then.

"Court will take a 30-minute recess." He stood up and left.

Stevenson's shoulders drooped. Damn the recesses. He knew that he and Patrick had probably lost all chance now that House had an opportunity for a quick psych session. All the pressure would be reset by the time testimony resumed. Patrick knew it, too, and audibly let out a low growl, like an animal, as the guards closed in to take him out.

House slumped in the witness box for a moment, trying to tell his body that the tension was off for a little while. It didn't believe him. Slowly he stood up, flinching as his leg, mostly forgotten through that, yelped at him. Martin closed in quickly. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"There's nothing I can legally object to in him watching you. I apologize."

"I know." House slowly exited the box, feeling a little shaky. Cuddy was coming to meet him, and Jensen was visibly resisting the urge to in front of the crowd. She came up on his left side, putting a warm hand on his back, giving mental and not just physical support.

"We're still here, Greg. Just look at us instead," she said softly.

"Let's get out of here for a while." He didn't want to get into this conversation in front of everybody.

Once back in the hall with Martin's office, of course, they did get into that conversation, Jensen for the first time walking along with him and Cuddy as he stretched his leg. Wilson and Martin both looked like they wanted to join and make it 5-way pacing, and both had trouble fighting the urge. "You don't have to watch him," the psychiatrist emphasized. "Looking away is not giving him the victory. Letting him get what he wants would be giving him the victory."

"But everybody's. . ." House trailed off.

"Let them. Trust me, none of them are going to judge you on it. I have a feeling more people than you think, including a few of the jury, have realized what he's trying already."

House turned as they reached the corner. "I think the judge actually knew it, too, but there's nothing legally to object to."

"What was that about with the judge?" Cuddy asked.

House immediately tightened up again. "Never mind. I'll tell you later." She accepted it, but he felt guilty a moment later for stalling her curiosity. He himself would have hated being put off. "I just remembered something there. Something I'd forgotten."

"And that's exactly why you don't need to be watching Patrick," Jensen repeated. "Don't let him do this to you. You have control, and he's desperate. Don't hand the situation back to him."

House palmed a chocolate mini doughnut as they passed Wilson and Martin again, and all the others relaxed a little. He hadn't taken a doughnut yet even though Martin had been holding the package invitingly for several minutes now. House stuffed that one down in about two bites. "You really think the jury is onto it?" he asked.

"At least three of them," Jensen confirmed. "They're bound to tell the others when they get into deliberations, too. Stevenson is down to his last play, and this can't go on much longer. You're bound to be finished today before long. The judge isn't letting him park on one line forever anymore."

House grinned suddenly. "I noticed that. It's fun to watch him try to hide being annoyed."

"Enjoy it later. If you look at him, he is going to draw you back to Patrick. Your _testimony_ is the victory over him, Dr. House. You don't need to let him redefine the battle. The court already defined the battle, and that's the verdict that counts."

House turned again at the end of the hall. "He's sitting there thinking . . . but I guess it doesn't really matter what he thinks of me."

"Right," Jensen agreed. "And I'll let you in on a secret. No matter what you do on the stand, I don't think his opinion of you is positive."

House smiled again. "Probably isn't."

"So why worry about it?"

House didn't answer, but he was obviously thinking. They walked the hall a few more minutes, with House stuffing down another doughnut, along with some water from the cooler in Martin's office at the end. Flanked by his support team, House reentered the courtroom.

Patrick 2.0 entered, still obviously in his alter ego, but this time, House barely glanced at him, facing Cuddy and the others instead. Stevenson stood up, feeling this case trickling away between his fingers. He was paid up front anyway, of course, but it was the biggest case of his career, and he hated losing his chance at it because of those regular recesses. He should have objected more when Martin first proposed that. "Dr. House." He paused invitingly, but House didn't look back over at him. "Through that whole day of Christopher's case, did you ever see my client act threateningly?"

"He did to me," House reminded him, and a ripple of amusement passed over the audience.

"I mean to Christopher. Did you ever see him threaten the boy?"

"No."

"Nor act openly abusive?"

"No."

"So he in fact was _not_ acting like your father."

House kept looking at Cuddy. "Actually, he was acting _very much_ like him. John didn't beat me in front of witnesses, either, and nobody around us noticed anything wrong." An ember of anger flared up in his eyes briefly as he remembered Thornton stating he thought House had been better off with John. He quickly slammed that mental door. Couldn't think about Thornton now; that wasn't any kind of improvement in his focus.

"And you were remembering all of this, everything your father had done and how unnoticed it had been, that whole day."

House shook his head. "No. I was very much caught up in the medical case and focused exclusively on that from reporting to CPS until that was solved."

"But you _were_ reminded of your father by my client. You have admitted that."

The judge spoke up before House could answer. "He's admitted it several times, Mr. Stevenson. You don't need to keep asking the same question. I'm sure the jury has already noted the answer."

Stevenson reluctantly changed subjects. "After Christopher's death, did you have any contact with my client before the Bellinger lawsuit was filed?"

"No."

"Did you follow up the CPS investigation?"

"They called me and invited me to attend the autopsy, but I refused."

"Why?"

"Because I thought if something actually was found against Patrick, the fact that I was there might be twisted someday in court by some conniving defense attorney." Even the judge got a smile out of that one.

Stevenson tried to ignore the moment. "Was that your _only_ reason, Dr. House?"

The momentary amusement died as quickly as it was born. House hesitated, then finally answered, "No."

"What was your other reason for not attending the autopsy?"

"I . . . I didn't want to. I'd done everything I could for Christopher and still lost medically. It's hard to lose patients, especially that young."

"Just didn't want to or is it that you weren't sure you could handle it?"

House looked back at him briefly and then quickly away again as Patrick's eyes caught him. "A little of both," he admitted.

"Because your memories were all stirred up by this case and you were trapped in the past, right?"

"No, because I had a 4-year-old patient where everything I tried wasn't enough," House snapped. "_Every_ doctor who has been a doctor any length of time has had specific patients who got to him more than others. I was not trapped in the past with Christopher. Medically as well as socially, his present was bad enough, and that present was what I was trying to help that day, for _his_ sake. It wasn't about me."

Stevenson flinched. That had started out well for his side, House's anger emphasizing that there _was_ more behind it, but the defense lost all the gain at the last sentences. The jury, nicely reminded of Christopher's abuse again, were thinking of that, not of House's extensive psychiatric issues. He switched topics, skipping pointing out that the results of the autopsy had been inconclusive. There was no way with the physical evidence from the laptop to claim that Christopher had _not_ been abused, regardless of what the autopsy had or had not proven. "So my client, at least one of his personalities, arranged to have the legal papers distributed around the hospital. Did that make you mad, Dr. House?"

"Yes, of course it did."

"So when you hired a private investigator, that was to get revenge on Chandler?"

"It was to find out the truth, hopefully enough to get the legal case against me dropped, and if it was enough to go on to CPS, I was going to turn it over to the authorities."

"But you were angry when you hired Mr. Douglas, right?"

"Yes," House admitted. "But that doesn't change the _facts_ that turned up."

"Just as all the points in those legal papers actually turned out to be facts against you." Stevenson was trying to remind the jury again about House's psych issues, but the answer turned against him.

"No, they weren't. The papers stated that I was distracted and worked inefficiently medically on Christopher's case, and that's not true. I had that diagnosis in about 12 hours; nobody could have beaten that. Andrews, who had the case first, just thought he had a bug. The papers also stated that Dr. Hadley had been incapable of working, and that is definitely untrue." House was still annoyed that Patrick couldn't somehow be charged with Hadley's death. "So I wasn't doing the same thing in hiring Lucas that Patrick had looking for information on me. He was trying to twist and manipulate, and he even outright lied when needed; I just wanted the facts on him, knowing that those alone would most likely be enough." House was looking directly at Stevenson, not at Patrick this time, but at the defense attorney, his eyes absolutely intent. He looked like anything but a weakling just now.

Stevenson knew he had lost it. Pushing House another step would only make matters worse. "No further questions," he said reluctantly and sat down.

The judge looked over at the prosecutor. "Mr. Martin? Do you have anything to add?"

"No, Your Honor."

The judge looked at his watch. "It's a little early, but court will go ahead and take a long lunch break. There isn't time for Mr. Stevenson's opening speech before lunch, and this way, he won't be interrupted. Court is adjourned until 1:00 p.m." He smacked the gavel down and stood up.

The media made their usual cavalry charge for the exits, and around the rest of the room, cell phones sprang to life as the crowd slowly started to exit. House let out a deep breath and stood up, stumbling slightly on the step. His leg was giving him hell. Martin caught his elbow and steadied him briefly, but there was no pity in the prosecutor's eyes, only absolute respect and approval. "Well done, Dr. House. I wish every case I had could have a witness like you."

He stepped aside as Cuddy got there, and this time, not even caring about the potential eyes of the crowd, she embraced her husband tightly, and he leaned into it, not pulling away.

His testimony was over.


	21. Chapter 21

Martin insisted on taking all of them out to lunch, and they wound up in a booth at House's favorite grill, Wilson, House, and Cuddy packed into one side, Martin and Jensen on the other. Cuddy kept a close eye on her husband. She could tell his leg was hurting more than baseline and also that he was still not quite ready to relax, having trouble convincing himself that it was over. Of course, it _wasn't_ over, now that his true father had dropped into the scene, and no doubt he knew that and didn't want to deal with it yet. At least he was eating better than he had this week so far, though not with the surge of total relief he'd had after the evidentiary hearing last fall.

The others kept the topics general during the meal, and House was relieved that Martin didn't want to thank him a thousand times. The prosecutor followed the conversational leads easily enough. House didn't contribute much, just working his way through a burger and fries. He really was hungry, but he also still had a tight feeling in his stomach. The end of his evidence only meant that deliberations had to begin soon, both in the formal trial as well as in - well, other things. There still wasn't a verdict yet. He would have expected being fit between Wilson and Cuddy on either side this closely to make him claustrophobic, but the warm bodies against him were comforting somehow.

"Do you want to go back to court, Greg?" Cuddy asked as he finally finished his burger with a side of meds. He did finish, but he was the last one to do so, in spite of having had the least to say during the meal. "We can go on home if you want, or back to the hospital. Or to hear the rest of it. Whatever you feel like."

House looked across at Jensen briefly. He knew the psychiatrist had to be chomping at the bit to jump in and dissect his feelings about Thornton. A shrink leaving a bombshell like _that_ alone for nearly two full days so far was very impressive, but it had to be on the urgent discussion list. He didn't feel like talking about it yet, though. "Let's go back and hear the defense, such as it is," he said. That wasn't just a dodge, he told himself. He really was curious what kind of paid mouthpieces Stevenson had scratched up.

"Sounds like a good plan," Jensen said, surprisingly sounding like he really did approve of it. "I'm interested in the psychiatric evidence myself." House promptly remembered that the psychiatrist wasn't being paid for this and that stalling the inevitable only ran up the unspoken bill further, and Jensen read his mind. "Really, I'd like to hear the rest of it. Call it professional curiosity. I'll go home this weekend, but today and tomorrow are fine. Who's the psychiatrist for the defense?"

"His name is George McKenzie," Martin said.

Jensen grinned. "Should have known. There really aren't unlimited opinion-for-hire psychiatrists out there in this area. Most of us are honest."

"Yes, I'm going to have fun with background and professional qualifications questions. It will be a nice contrast to Dr. House's reputation."

"Is Patrick testifying?" Wilson asked.

"No. I'm sure the reason they'll state is being afraid he'd switch personalities on the stand under stress. The real reason, of course, is that he wouldn't help his case any. With this much factual evidence, you have to be either an Oscar-caliber actor or telling the truth to face extended cross on an insanity plea. Chandler isn't either one."

House snorted. "Yeah, right. I hope the jury sees what a total load of crap this is."

"I think they've had their eyes opened already," Martin said with satisfaction. "There are two main parts to their defense. The first is evidence that Bartle would do anything to win a case and had most likely crossed the line before. There's a good bit of that now that his whole career has been investigated. I'll cut the effect of that nicely by simply not cross-examining at all on the grounds that Bartle being a crook is irrelevant to whether Chandler is also one. Anything they prove on Bartle, and I don't dispute their facts, still doesn't mean he acted alone. Then there's the psychiatrist for the defense, and I definitely will cross examine there. But the defense's case is pretty short. I think they were banking heavily on breaking you down on cross. We might even make it to the jury by the end of the day tomorrow."

Wilson was trying to work out the time line. "So opening speech, and then the testimony against Bartle, then the psychiatrist. That's it?"

"We've each got a closing argument, too, just wrapping it up for the jury." Martin looked at his watch. "We need to be heading back."

As they entered the courthouse and worked through the returning crowd, several people had encouraging comments to House or wanted to shake his hand. Cuddy gripped his left hand tightly after a minute, leaving him with none free as long as he had the cane in his right, and that subliminal message seemed to hold the public at a distance and limit the physical contact, but they still wanted to talk. Progress toward the courtroom was as slow as 5:00 p.m. traffic on the turnpike, and preoccupied with the crowd, they didn't notice Thomas Thornton, also caught in the traffic jam, until they nearly ran into him.

"Well done, Greg," he said, all the warm approval in his voice that House had never heard from John. House's head jerked up, and their eyes met for a moment. Thornton was the first to turn away, but he gave him a tentative smile first, then pushed on in the direction of the overflow room.

House abruptly picked up force, ignoring the public now and making a beeline for the courtroom. The crowd moved aside as people recognized him. "Surprised he didn't leave," he muttered as they took seats in the front row.

"Everything's not over yet," Wilson pointed out, only recognizing the double meaning a moment after he'd said it.

House didn't reply. The judge reentered, and Stevenson stood up to open for the defense.

(H/C)

"Are you still coming home for the weekend?" Cathy asked, enthusiasm overflowing her voice as always.

"You can count on it," Jensen promised her. "I might even be home tomorrow night late - very late. We'll see. But definitely Saturday morning. And that will be it; we have all of next week for vacation still."

"Cool. I've got a new piece I've been working on this week for you."

"I'm looking forward to hearing it."

"Dad, is Dr. House okay?"

Jensen mentally sorted out the 9-year-old version of that. "He will be, Cathy. It was just a hard week for him. He had to talk about a lot of things he'd rather forget."

"And that's why you aren't coming home yet?"

"Right. I want to talk to him about what happened this week, but it doesn't need to be tonight. We'll do that tomorrow night."

"The news on TV said he was great."

"He was. I think this man will be going to prison for the rest of his life."

"Good. That way he doesn't get to hurt any more kids." Jensen smiled. Cathy wasn't worried about herself at all but truly was concerned thinking of all those other children out there. "Can I talk to Dr. House for a minute? Just to say hi, I promise. Nothing sneaky this time."

"Not tonight, Cathy. He's - he's kind of worn out from today, and he's hurting. Maybe in a few days, after the trial is totally over. He'll feel better then."

She sighed. "You aren't telling me things again."

"You're right," he admitted. "And I'm sorry, but that's how life works sometimes. I'm really telling you as much as I can, Cathy. I'll tell him you said hi, okay? That will mean something to him."

"Okay," she accepted grudgingly. "Did he like the fudge?"

"Yes. He _loved_ the fudge. It helped, and he knew you were thinking of him."

"If I agree not to talk to him tonight, can we go to the zoo again next week?"

Jensen laughed even while protesting. "You aren't going to talk to him tonight anyway. But we can probably fit the zoo in. You can talk to him next week, Cathy, I promise. Tonight just isn't the right night for it."

"I guess. Mom wants to talk to you."

"Okay. I love you, Cathy. I'll see you Saturday morning at the latest."

"Love you, too, Dad. Bye." She passed the phone off.

After a more in-depth but still edited conversation with Melissa, Jensen hung up. He felt a little guilty about not driving on home tonight, but he really did think there were acute things that he needed to at least start discussing with House, and that didn't need to be via phone later, nor did it need to be in person tonight. He wanted to see House during that session, getting constant visual as well as verbal feedback, because he had a feeling they were about to blow the top off a long-buried landmine. House had been very preoccupied all afternoon, and Jensen would be surprised if he had heard even half of what was said in court during Stevenson's opening speech and then the testimony about Bartle.

The encounter in the courthouse lobby had not been planned, but once the opportunity was there, Thornton had seized it to get in his few words. Jensen did give him credit for staying away from House during his testimony. The psychiatrist had spotted him twice in the crowd in the lobby during breaks, once yesterday and once this morning, and Thornton had given his son a wide berth both times, though with an expression of such pure longing that Jensen couldn't help feeling sympathy. Thornton wanted so badly to be part of that support system around House in this crisis. He didn't want to upset House or damage his testimony, but the message was clearly delivered in that encounter after lunch that he wasn't just going to melt away into the background again, either. Not that Jensen had thought he would, but he knew House had hoped it. Just rewind, erase that part of this week, and go on pretending nothing had happened.

It couldn't be done. Not relationally and not psychiatrically. Watching House this afternoon had been proof enough of that. They needed to get his feelings out and let him start to process them.

But not tonight. House was still in post-testimony shock, his leg was hurting significantly, and Jensen thought he needed another day to decompress after Patrick's strategy this morning. Pride surged through the psychiatrist as he remembered the way House had there at the end dismissed Patrick, facing Stevenson alone, letting him know absolutely clearly that he would not get what he wanted. But this morning had taken a hard toll on House, even though he had won. Jensen had no intentions of trying a session tonight.

He stood up from the bed in the guest room and opened the door. House and Cuddy had been getting the girls to bed, a bit of a challenge tonight as they wanted the family evening they'd all been enjoying extended. But Cuddy had put her foot down. House was worn out tonight. Jensen didn't think they'd be able to get him to shut down without at least one small conversation first, though.

Now, as he stepped out into the hall, the house was mostly silent. He headed for the nursery and nearly bumped into House exiting, Cuddy tiptoeing out after him. "Do _not_ make a sound," House whispered.

Jensen grinned. "Rachel finally gave up?" he said, equally softly.

"Finally is the word for it." House headed off toward the kitchen, limping heavily, and Jensen came up close beside Cuddy as she closed the nursery door.

"Give us a few minutes," he requested.

She immediately fired up, her eyes challenging him. "You are _not_ going to grill him over Thornton tonight. He doesn't need . . ."

"I have no intention of it," Jensen assured her. "I'd much rather leave him totally alone tonight, but I don't think he's going to let me. Not entirely. If he doesn't start anything, I won't."

Comprehension dawned in her eyes. "The money."

"Right." Jensen was afraid that that little issue would need to be clarified between them before he could do much else.

"Damn Stevenson." She sighed. "Okay, but don't push him."

"You can trust me," he reminded her.

They headed for the living room, and Cuddy picked up a few of the girls' things - not that there was ever much laying around in her house. "I'm going to sort out the laundry and get a load in the washer, Greg," she called.

"Mm-ky," he mumbled, obviously mouth full, from the kitchen. Jensen entered the room and opened the fridge, surveying the drink selection himself.

House looked over at him, gulped down the last square of the fudge he was polishing off, and washed it down with a long swallow of beer. "So," he said, "I got to thinking earlier." _Stevenson_ got you thinking earlier, Jensen edited. "How much do I owe you for this week?"

The psychiatrist made his choice and closed the refrigerator as he turned to face House. "Quite a lot. I'm hoping you'll have enough balance available to be able to pay it." House stared at him, completely caught off guard by the answer. "My fee for this week is for you just to forget about it and not let that snake in a suit get you worried about something that was never even an issue."

House absorbed that for a moment, and Jensen braced himself for the protest. To have to openly admit that something was done purely out of friendship would be frightening for House, living as he had a life surrounded by many with ulterior motives. It wasn't the money that concerned House; it was understanding the frame of reference, and friendship was a frame of reference he was still cautiously exploring. Money for services was a far more familiar field. To be thrown into the deep end like Stevenson had done today left him floundering in undefined water, needing to sink or swim. "But you're missing work," House started.

"No, I'm not. I'm missing vacation," Jensen pointed out. Earlier, he would have simply taken a fee for the week to end the discussion and pacify House, but they had moved beyond that. House just needed to trust what he already subconsciously knew.

"But that's . . ." House trailed off. Work could be defined, X dollars per hour times number of hours. How the hell did you put a value on vacation with all the intangible factors of what else you could be doing?

Jensen dropped into a kitchen chair, hoping that House would follow his example. The other man's leg was obviously still hurting. House sat down across from him after a moment. "So you just do free court hand-holding for patients when required? Is that it? Didn't see that on the patient information form, but I didn't read the whole thing, either."

"No," Jensen replied evenly. "On the couple of other occasions that I went to court for a patient, my expenses were covered." On every other case, the other person had brought it up immediately when arrangements were first made, but Jensen didn't point that out now.

"So you just forgot to ask me?"

"No, I didn't forget. I _will not take it_. Not from you. For one thing, bringing Patrick to justice is huge, and assisting that is its own reward, but for another, I'm not doing this because you're my patient. It would be as wrong of me to accept payment for that as it would to charge Mark for the time I'm playing chess with him. This is something I _choose_ to do for a friend."

House was scrambling mentally, still trying to define the exact edges and limits and values of this, and Jensen took pity on him. "Let's say just hypothetically that we _are_ talking about pay. Okay, how much is a full day off with your wife and girls worth? How many dollars?"

"How the hell could I answer that?"

"Exactly. Take that times four - Monday I did spend mostly with my family, so that one doesn't count. Tuesday through tomorrow, and I'll leave tomorrow night or Saturday morning first thing. Notice, by the way, that two weeks out of my three weeks of vacation will still be spent with them. More counting weekends. But four days in Princeton. _If_ we were dealing in money, that is what you would owe me, the value of four days with family. Now then, let's balance that. Income and outflow; the spreadsheet always has two columns. How much financially is it worth to see a serial child abuser go down? How much do I get from knowing I supported a friend who needed it? Think about the time when Dr. Cuddy was pregnant with Abby very early, and you went with James on his first visit to Mayfield to see Danny after visiting hours were approved. You gave up an evening with Dr. Cuddy and Rachel and went with him instead. How much did he pay you in cash for your time? On the other hand, how many dollars equivalent did that night pay you in satisfaction by knowing that you had helped him?"

House sighed and lurched to his feet again, starting to pace around the table. "You don't owe me anything for this week," Jensen emphasized. "Not everything has to be defined and limits proven, Dr. House. The fact that something is abstract doesn't mean it's not real."

House jerked to a halt. "I'm too tired to have this conversation tonight," he protested, an almost challenging note in his voice, daring the psychiatrist to keep going.

Jensen sat back. "I agree. I didn't want to talk tonight anyway; you're the one who brought it up, not me. I'm perfectly content not to discuss it anymore, not tonight or ever." House looked at him, then turned away, limping into the living room. Jensen followed him, wondering if he should have given in instead of holding his ground. Damn Stevenson. This was like snatching a half-formed pottery vessel off the wheel and throwing it suddenly into the kiln rather than allowing completion of the gentle sculpting first.

House sat down at the piano, first dislodging Belle from the piano bench cushion, and started to play, but the music was still distracted, trying to settle to a tune, unable to do so, and wandering constantly like a radio unable to decide on one station. Jensen sat down on the couch, watching him. "By the way," the psychiatrist said after a minute, "Cathy says hi." House smiled slightly without looking at him and kept playing. Jensen just listened, following the tracks of melody, some known, some unfamiliar. He strongly suspected that a few of them were original compositions.

House stopped abruptly in mid song. "You know that one," he accused.

Jensen hadn't realized until now that his hands had been moving slightly, reaching for strings. "Yes, I know that one."

"So go get a guitar. The cases are under the bed in the guest room. Grab any of them."

Jensen looked at him for a moment, startled, and then his smile widened. He stood up and went into the guest room, returning a minute later with a guitar. He sat down on the couch and began exploring chords, getting the feel of the instrument. "I'm not nearly as good as you are," he apologized in advance.

The blue eyes were laughing silently at him. "Believe me, I'm used to that." He started up again on the piano, and Jensen joined in with the guitar, the two instruments both falling into step with the song, and this time, the music was shared, not distracted. When Cuddy slipped quietly down the hall a few minutes later in amazed curiosity, unable to believe her ears, they were in perfect sync.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! Not much House directly in this chapter, but it's an important interlude. We will return to House and co. and court (with evil psychiatrist, although not with verbatim entire testimony) next chapter.

(H/C)

Thomas Thornton entered his hotel room and sat down with a sigh on the edge of the bed. He wasn't as young as he used to be. Either that, or the stress of this week was wearing on him. His first move, even before kicking off his shoes, was to pick up his laptop from the nightstand and quickly log on to check email.

Nothing. Not what he was looking for, at least. He had hoped that with testimony over, Greg would get down to thinking more about whether to open the lines of communication or not, and he was definitely expecting the first move, if there was a first move, to come via email. Short, convenient, did not require talking to the other person directly. They would probably hold email conversations for a while before moving on to phones. Thomas also fully expected the first email to be angry, even outright challenging, but that was fine, as long as it was sent. Anything at all from his son, even variations on the "Where the hell were you?" line, would be at least a step in the right direction and would be welcomed.

They needed to communicate. But it was all in Greg's hands right now; he had the card with the assorted contact information. Thornton would simply have to wait; pushing it too fast here would be a mistake, as the psychiatrist had noted.

He agreed with the assessment, but he had always hated waiting. Inaction grated on the nerves as much as stress did.

Action, on the other hand, was something he had always enjoyed, especially thought-out action, strategizing, not just jumping into something but plotting out his course first. He removed his shoes, settled down on the bed with his back propped up against the headboard, and switched over from email to the browser to add to the information he had already gleaned this evening since court dismissed.

It had been very easy for him to follow Stevenson after court, the old military training still there as he studied his new enemy, and the defense attorney had never suspected anything. He quickly had Stevenson's home address, knew that he either lived there alone or had all other inhabitants away at the moment, and knew presumably his favorite bar and grill just around the corner, where the other man had walked to after changing clothes. The attorney had confined himself to one beer only with a burger for dinner.

Thornton had deliberately held to the background the first time, not wanting attention from Stevenson or anyone else, and spent most of the time down the hall to the restrooms, but he returned to the place a good bit later after deciding Stevenson was in for the night. That time, he had a burger and beer himself and fell into casual conversation with the bartender, who he could tell hadn't noticed him earlier. He had _not_ probed for anything about Stevenson tonight, simply establishing himself in the bartender's memory as a good guy, older and a bit foggy on memory these days but still enjoying talking about anything from news to sports. He left a tip large enough to be remembered but not large enough to be suspicious.

He would return there tomorrow and Saturday, and maybe by Saturday, the defense attorney might come up, aided by the TV always on there. Stevenson had been careful not to be there during the early news, although the "everybody gets a defense" argument could also be made among his acquaintances had he found himself suddenly under awkward questioning. Instead, he had avoided the news slot entirely, which told Thornton a few other things about how his mind worked. If Thornton was there during the late news Friday and Saturday, one of those broadcasts might well include a clip of Stevenson examining a witness or of his closing speech if they made it that far before the weekend. It would be a natural lead to bring up the man if handled carefully, and Thornton had spent a good part of his later military career handling topics and people carefully, pulling out information without being suspected.

Meanwhile, there were other routes he could use to gather information. He sent off a quick email (nothing yet from Greg) to another ex-Marine who was still a very close friend and was also a lawyer in New York City, asking for any professional inside scoop on Stevenson. He could trust the friend's discretion, and his own presence at the trial, with the new revelations about John House and natural shock/curiosity about them, wouldn't seem too odd. The other man no doubt remembered John, too, and knew Thornton had been a long-time friend of his. If he did happen to put two and two together from bites of current testimony, he would keep his mouth shut.

Thornton then set into research on Stevenson himself. Unlike many people in their 70s, he was excellent at modern technology and the capabilities of the internet. The man's full name was easy to find in news stories. He browsed through various public databases, as well as a few lesser-known military ones he knew of just on an off chance the attorney had ever served before becoming a lawyer. That led to a nice gold nugget of information as he found that Stevenson had entered the Army at age 18 and had been discharged only four months later. Four months later. Either the man had committed some crime - and there was no record of that, and discharge was honorable - or a tragedy had occurred at home that required his immediate and extended attention and demanded his presence with his family, or he had simply been unsuited to Army life to the point of being hopeless. Thomas knew of people who had been dismissed for that reason, usually diagnosed with some variety of personality disorder. There were those who simply could not deal with the discipline and rigid structure.

Stevenson also seemed to attach a lot of stigma to needing psychiatric help. That might have been merely a tactic to use against Greg, but it seemed to carry a bit more of a longer-held opinion to Thornton's ears. Of course, a lot of people in the general public would rather die before admitting ever needing or even considering therapy, but Thornton had already wondered if Stevenson had had his own short brush with the psychiatric field at some point long past and was privately ashamed of it. Thornton fished for another thirty minutes or so, checking email regularly still, gathering small pieces on Stevenson, slowly starting to assemble a picture. Another email was sent off to a close military friend who was still in and was a brigadier general now, asking for specific reason given for discharge, and with that, he closed down the Stevenson part of the evening's research. Those two he knew he could trust to be discreet, and his trust wasn't given lightly.

Adding more up-to-date information about Greg was harder. There he had to respect boundaries and privacy, something he had no qualms about with Stevenson. But he knew that pushing his son would backfire, as would trying to get data on his granddaughters before he and Greg had come to an understanding. For instance, the most obvious move would have been to call Blythe himself. Inside of five minutes, Thomas could have extracted quite a lot of details about Greg, his wife, and their girls, just like taking candy from a baby. But he couldn't do it. Greg would be furious at his father taking advantage of his mother's gullibility that way.

Besides, he didn't particularly want to talk to Blythe. Their relationship over the years had been defined by Greg, but without that bond, Thomas probably would have drifted away from any contact with her long since. Their one-night-stand had flared up purely out of the heat of the moment, and he was ashamed of it later; he did think it was wrong to sleep with a married woman, even if unattached himself. But even though they took steps to make sure it would never have opportunity to happen again, the longer and closer Thomas knew Blythe, the less attractive she was to him, and he had often thought that if the same situation had come up a year later, it would have led to nothing. She truly wasn't his type at all, and only Greg had bonded them.

Then there was his own newly kindled anger. Okay, maybe that was hypocritical for a man who had turned down and laughed at his son's one childhood plea to blame the boy's mother for also missing things, but still, listening to the evidence, he thought she should have put it together. She had been there constantly, after all. He had known she created her own reality to some extent, but he was shocked at the level of her blindness.

No, he didn't trust himself to talk to her just yet. Besides, it truly would burn his bridges hopelessly with Greg. Instead, he had to rely on either openly public data or things that Greg and his wife had said themselves.

The one tidbit he had already, easy enough to extrapolate, was his younger granddaughter's birthday. Christopher Bellinger had died around 5:00 a.m. the morning after admission. Greg said the day before Christopher was admitted had been the girl's first birthday. Deduct two days from Christopher's death, which had been given in the trial, and he had it. He clung to that, one solid piece of information, and wondered if he would at least know her name by her second birthday this fall, even if he couldn't come to the party or send a gift. He would wish her happy birthday silently if nothing else. He added it to his calendar, the one nugget of data on his granddaughters. And that would have to be it. Information on them _must_ be obtained directly from Greg, or possessing it would count as evidence against Thornton. He did take a few moments to think of and send up a prayer for Ann Bellinger. In the category of unintentionally handing your son over to the enemy, she had committed the same sin Thomas had with even more tragic, in fact fatal consequences. He couldn't imagine how she must feel. Her testimony had been by far the hardest to sit through up until Greg himself took the stand.

Thomas then looked up the wife, easy enough since he knew from court evidence she was administrator of Princeton-Plainsboro. Lisa Cuddy-House. Very impressive career she had had, too, in a different way than Greg's medical brilliance, but she clearly was a very astute and driven careerwoman. She also was obviously close to Greg. As Emily, his dead wife, used to say at times of couples, "They're a _with_."

Emily. The familiar pain stabbed at him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. His email beeped, and he opened his eyes quickly and jumped over, only to find a piece of spam. One of the drawbacks of email: Deleting something simply lacked the physical satisfaction of crumpling it up and hurling it at the wastebasket.

The other main piece of recent data he had was unintentionally given but did come from them and thus was fair game. He mentally replayed Greg's wife's comment to her husband from Tuesday night in the park. _ Wilson is there; he brought Jensen home from court, but he also volunteered to keep the girls and let Marina leave._

Wilson had brought Jensen home from court. Wilson's being there was a new twist on the evening, unlike Jensen, whose presence went without comment. Wilson did not live there; that must be the friend who came to John's funeral with Greg, and a quick scan of the PPTH site identified him. Jensen, however, was staying at their house at the moment, had ridden to court in their car, and had been stranded at the courthouse when they left for their talk. Jensen would be the psychiatrist he had met last night.

It took Thornton a while to track that down through professional databases, partly because his first guess at the spelling was wrong and partly because he started out looking in the wrong state. Finally, though, he was fairly certain with last name and age range matching and one focus area of practice being PTSD: Michael Jensen in Middletown, New York. He researched Jensen's credentials and education, not that he questioned them after actually meeting the man, but it was _something_. It was, as he had told him, a step closer to his son. He seemed to have a rock-solid reputation professionally.

Finally, truly getting tired now, he looked up anything Greg had published within the last three years and skimmed them. What a mind his son had. Thomas allowed himself some of the credit for that; Greg definitely didn't get it from Blythe. But Greg was far more than just a derivative of him; he was truly a special person on his own, both professionally and otherwise.

Thomas got undressed, then checked email one final time. Nothing. Of course, Greg was probably exhausted tonight. It was only to be expected that it would take a few more days to hear anything. Assuming he ever did hear anything.

The laptop closed. Research and collecting intelligence were fascinating but a poor substitute for what Thomas really wanted to do at the moment. He switched off the light and brushed his wedding ring, which he still wore. "Good night, Emily," he said, the end of every day for him still, as it had been for decades. Tonight, though, he added a postscript. "Good night, Greg."


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. I was just remembering a few days ago that several people were disappointed after Medical Homicide that the Patrick full trial didn't come immediately and wanted me to just write down "something quick" on it, even just a one shot, so people would know what happened to him. My muse wasn't choosing to go there just then, and I can't push her, even though I didn't (then) know exactly what would happen to Patrick myself and wondered. Anyway, I hope the folks who were disappointed with exactly how this line played out aren't anymore.

Back to court. However, only House's evidence is given verbatim in this story, so the rest of the trial will be much more in summary. House is also distracted, to put it mildly, even though he's trying not to be, and he's not following every word himself. Also, about Thornton's plan, he doesn't know himself exactly what he is going to do yet, which is the point of the information collecting. To settle in advance on a firm course of symbolic retribution with somebody you know nothing on is rarely the best way, since the perfect punishment for individuals will differ. I will tell you that for all Thornton's careful scheming, the whole thing winds up not working out quite as he had intended. :)

On to 23. Thanks again for all the reviews and for enjoying this little universe along with me. Next chapter will be a very intense House-Jensen session. It is Friday, fic time. Verdict ends on Tuesday.

The book on the Billy Milligan case by Daniel Keyes is fascinating.

(H/C)

Court started out Friday morning with the remainder of the defense evidence against Bartle, which hadn't quite finished on Thursday afternoon. Overall, the picture was thorough, detailed, and convincing, and House thought, listening with half of his mind, that if Bartle were on trial here, he would be convicted. He just hoped that his own evidence had come across half as firmly against Patrick, who really _was_ on trial here.

And what about Thomas Thornton? What was the evidence against him? House reviewed it mentally. He had abandoned his son without even thinking about it. Only he said he _had_ thought about it. Yeah, right. How anybody could have concluded that House was better off with John was incomprehensible to him. Thornton was far from stupid; he should have seen it. He had also taken that desperate, shielded plea when House was six and _laughed_ at him. He had never even tried to follow up his son's life after House left - well, it had never been home, but after House left the SOB he had been forced by _this man's lack of action _to grow up with. Yes, the anger was fully justified. Thornton had let him down, and turning up 52 years later with some lame excuse was 52 years too late. House didn't even need to waste time deliberating this verdict.

Martin stood up in front of them, the motion catching House's eye and dumping him back in the present. He was aware suddenly that Cuddy was watching him with concern, and he smiled at her reassuringly with an 'everything's fine' message. She didn't look too convinced. _Focus_, House. He didn't need to worry his family. He looked at the front of the room and realized that Stevenson had finished direct. "I have no questions," Martin announced.

Stevenson stared at him. "None at all?" he asked.

"No. I consider this whole line irrelevant to the evidence against Chandler." Martin sat back down, having nicely put this into perspective, and the jury rippled slightly as if a breeze had blown through the jury box as they absorbed his point. House grinned at Stevenson's expression. Nice to throw him off balance for a chance. What was it Jensen had called him? A snake in a suit. It fit.

"Call your next witness, Mr. Stevenson," the judge prompted as the investigator against Bartle left the stand.

Stevenson regathered himself and stood up again. "I call Dr. George McKenzie." There was a delay of a few minutes while the psychiatrist was summoned. House looked at his watch, surprised to see that 40 minutes of testimony had already gone by already this morning. He shifted, stretching out his leg some, glad of the extra leg room that being on the front row gave them. This was at least more comfortable than the witness stand, and he was less tense, too. He repeated that to himself, reminding his muscles that they could relax now. It was over.

"Bet you're looking forward to this," he said softly to Jensen.

The psychiatrist rolled his eyes, but he had sat up straighter at the witness's name. "I'm looking forward to the verdict more," he said. "But yes, I'm quite curious to hear his evidence. In a disgusted sort of way, that is." Jensen had been watching House himself so far this morning, though less obviously than Cuddy. Tonight, they had to talk and start working through things. House was less generally shocked today, but with the renewed energy, he was having quite a workout of mental gymnastics while sitting there. Jensen didn't have to guess at the subject, and it wasn't Patrick.

The witness entered, clearly another snake in a suit, and took the stand. Stevenson started out very briefly with the qualification questions establishing this expert witness, then launched straight into the psychiatrist's examination of Patrick.

"How much time have you spent examining my client?"

"At this point, several hours."

House felt Jensen's reaction, obviously considering this a dodge, that if the total were truly impressive, it would have been specified. Stevenson, however, was satisfied with the answer. "So you have had plenty of time to question and observe him in detail?"

"Yes, I have."

"How has he appeared to you in those meetings?"

"Most of the time, he was what I'd call politely bewildered. He knew the facts of the charges against him by then, but he truly seemed to have no memory of the actions leading up to them." House looked at Patrick, back in his fake bewildered persona this morning.

"Most of the time? What about the rest of the time, Doctor?" House came to attention suddenly. There was just a hint, carefully suppressed, of subliminal text at the title of doctor. He really does not like psychiatrists, House realized. Even ones testifying for his case. He doesn't think they're legitimate doctors, not like physical doctors. House had thought the obvious derision about the mental health field during his cross-examination was simply an effort to belittle him, but it was still there, though carefully hidden. He looked at Jensen again, who was watching Stevenson himself momentarily, not the witness.

"There were a few times that he suddenly became - intense, very much trying to control things, a completely different attitude. In that one, he _did_ remember his actions toward the children."

The children. House's thoughts drifted off again in spite of himself as he looked down the row to Ann Bellinger, still here as she had been every day after her testimony. All those children Patrick had hurt, and Christopher, of course, was dead. He hoped she was still in therapy. She looked thinner, but the fact that she hadn't either killed herself or gone truly crazy with guilt in the intervening months was positive. He hoped she could somehow survive this. Maybe the trial would bring at least a small measure of closure.

The children. So many dangers out there, people like Patrick, people like John. A true parent watched out for his children. And now Thornton, who had failed in that largest parenting responsibility, who _hadn't_ protected his son, wanted a relationship with his granddaughters. Would they even be safe spending time with somebody that blind? He pictured Abby and Rachel growing up. They needed people around whom they could rely on.

Cuddy touched his shoulder, and he startled. "Greg?"

He looked at her blankly for a moment. She was standing up. "What?" Most of the courtroom was standing up, actually.

"There's a recess for half an hour."

"Oh." He stood up, stretching his leg carefully. Jensen and Wilson were on their feet, too, and Martin turned around to face them.

"Want to go back to my office away from the crowd?"

House shrugged but started toward the door. He was actually tempted for a moment to go speak to Ann Bellinger, but what would he say? What _could_ he say? Even Wilson with his famous bedside manner would have trouble coming up with encouragement while they were at the trial of the man who had abused and indirectly caused the death of her son. Even Hallmark didn't have a card for this occasion.

Back in the hall, House walked up and down a little, working the kinks out of his leg. He was surprised at how much tension was still there even today with his testimony over; must be those seats. He was glad the judge was still going to give them recesses occasionally, even if that was an obvious concession to him. "What did you think of the psychiatrist so far?" he asked Jensen.

Jensen shook his head. "He's not only an opinion for hire, but he's got a pet subject and sees everything through those glasses. He loves multiple personalities. He probably read _Sybil_ years ago, in fact has read it over and over, and pictured himself finding a similar case and playing a starring role in his own book. He hasn't really published much, even articles, but I'm sure he'd love to have a book."

"I'll be working on his fascination with this subject in cross," Martin commented. "Good idea on asking specifically how many times he's read _Sybil_, though."

"I didn't think he'd spent that much time with Patrick, either," Jensen noted. "I doubt the total is as impressive as he meant to sound, even with a live example of a triple personality for him to study. Not sure he's fully ready to commit to Patrick until they win and get it confirmed in the news. He wants a book, but he's not quite sure this case is it."

"Triple personality?" House was surprised. "There's the fake bewildered one and then the abusive one. Who else has moved in?"

"He got to that just before the break," Wilson said. "There was a scared kid one, too."

House had totally missed that, and Cuddy was still looking concerned. He tried to cover his lapse with ridicule. "Oh, yeah, the scared kid one. Let me guess: We're about to get Patrick's background sob story."

"Yes," Martin said. "I'm really going to get into that on cross. For one thing, I think he's lying - Chandler, I mean - but for another, it's no excuse even if it happened. Lots of people _aren't_ abusive in spite of their own past."

Everybody looked at House there. "Do you have any more of those doughnuts?" he asked, trying to divert attention.

Court did indeed hear Patrick's background sob story when they resumed. In fact, said sob story took up the rest of the morning, a tale of Patrick's father, who had perpetrated all sorts of abuse against his poor son, and how Patrick had "split" in self defense at the age of seven, leaving one personality who was in effect his father, not him, as well as a frightened personality locked perpetually at age seven, along with his basic personality, which wasn't acquainted with the other two and had repressed his entire childhood. House tried diligently to hold focus, but he still found his mind wandering now and then and snapping back with a jerk obviously several questions later. The direct evidence ended just before lunch break with the conclusion that Patrick was a poor, crazy abuser who needed understanding and therapy, not prison. Not that the psychiatrist phrased it quite like that, but that was the gist of it.

"You notice how much of that was derivative?" Wilson asked as they drove to lunch. Martin hadn't joined them today, choosing a quick sandwich in his office as he got ready for cross.

"Yeah. Ice baths."

"The episode with the curtains was almost verbatim from a case in New York about a year and a half ago," Jensen put in. "That was in the media, although not this big a case. Martin probably already realizes that. He's good."

"He is," House agreed, trying to cover the fact that he didn't remember testimony about something with curtains. "I'm looking forward to him ripping this all to shreds on the stand."

They didn't discuss the trial or abuse or John or Patrick (or Thornton) during lunch itself, of course, but Cuddy still had the hidden concern behind her eyes, House noted. He had to do a better job of not zoning out this afternoon.

They were all back in court in good time. House spotted Thornton in the lobby, the other man looking straight at him, but he didn't come over to talk today, at least. Once in the courtroom, Jensen took a minute to have a quiet conference with Martin, and he was smiling as he sat down. "He already knew about those details with the curtains being reported in the media. He's done his research. I figured he had, but . . ."

House grinned. "You know, he _has_ done this court thing a few times before. Can't resist sticking your nose in, can you?" It amused him to see Jensen get so into the details of this particular witness. He could see clearly once in a while how the psychiatrist had formerly had delusions of being SuperShrink, throwing himself into every possible professional cause where his services might be needed, always on duty.

Jensen returned the smile, accepting the ribbing and conceding the point. "I _did_ tell you that I wanted to hear this witness."

"Your problem is you want to save the world through shrinkdom, heal all wounds, and expose all charlatans. At least with the charlatans, there are too many of them to take it personally," House grumbled. "Don't try taking over from Martin this afternoon, okay?"

The room was called to attention just then, the judge entered, and everybody but Martin sat back down. The prosecutor approached the witness, his whole attitude smooth and confident but less sinuous than Stevenson. From him, the title of doctor carried no subtext, but he quickly brought out that McKenzie's alma mater was not the best in the country, nor even in the top 20 in prestige, and that he himself had not been near the head of his class. Martin spent more time on background and qualifications than Stevenson had, as well as current reputation (Conferences spoken at? Publications recently? Average consultation requests from other physicians per month?). With that contrasted nicely to House's reputation, Martin moved on to Patrick.

"How much time did you spend examining Mr. Chandler, Doctor?"

"I've seen him several times over the last eight months."

"For exactly how much time? How many hours?" Martin was polite but relentless.

"15 hours total," the psychiatrist finally answered. Jensen shook his head. He would have put in far more - and so would almost any colleague he knew. On a case this large and charges this extreme, several days' worth of examination was a bare minimum.

"Interesting. Is that about as much time as you usually spend with a witness preparing to testify on a big case?"

"It's about the usual, and as an expert, we are trained to see things that the general public would be less quick to pick up on."

"Have you ever read the book _Sybil_, Doctor?"

McKenzie straightened up, his interest irresistibly kicking in. "Yes, of course. It's a fascinating case study."

"How many times have you read it?"

"I haven't counted, but several."

"Over a dozen?"

"Yes."

"Over a hundred times?"

McKenzie hesitated. "I haven't counted," he repeated, but he couldn't outright dismiss the figure.

"In fact, have you spent far more hours reading this book over the years than examining any individual patient like Chandler?"

The psychiatrist tried to backpedal, seeing the trap too late. "Reading is a recreational activity. Of course, I've spent more time reading over the years than talking to any one patient."

Martin let it go. The jury had taken the point. "Have you studied the case of Billy Milligan?"

"Yes, I have. It's a landmark case."

"Can you summarize that case for us?"

"Billy Milligan was accused of raping three women on the campus of Ohio State University back in the 1970s. He turned out to have 24 different personalities, ranging widely in ages, genders, and even nationalities. Some had accents and spoke other languages that Milligan himself had never had occasion to pick up. The one who confessed to the rapes was actually a lesbian personality and not male. All of these different people had resulted from a split in childhood due to severe abuse by his stepfather, and most of the personalities truly did not know that the rape had occurred. He was eventually found not guilty by reason of insanity at his trial and was committed to long-term psychiatric treatment, although he was finally released after many years. He was the first person ever to be found not guilty by reason of insanity due to multiple personalities."

"How did people know he wasn't faking it?" Martin asked.

McKenzie shook his head, a fanatic caught up in preaching his favorite sermon. "He was examined far too extensively. Several different experts evaluated him, and he was even studied in a psychiatric hospital for months _before_ the trial, as well as the years of treatment afterward. There was so much psychiatric evidence that even the prosecution didn't dispute his personalities. They were actually invited by the defense to sit in on some of the examinations before the trial, to prove to the prosecution that this was a legitimate plea and that he wasn't just trying to get out of a prison sentence. Nobody disagreed with the diagnosis by the time it was in court; the only question was whether his condition could justify the insanity defense. That diagnosis never had been defined legally as insanity at that point."

"So there were far more than 15 hours spent with him by experts before his trial for rape?"

McKenzie backtracked, seeing the tie to the current case too late. "Yes, but that was an entirely different set of circumstances. It was the _first_ time anybody ever tried claiming insanity as a defense because another personality had committed a violent crime. It was setting precedents. They knew they were in uncharted waters, so they were _very_ thorough."

"You don't think that later cases deserve as much attention as the first ones?"

"Of course they deserve attention, but it always takes longer when someone is breaking new ground. More is known in later cases already, as the diagnosis in general is much more familiar by this point, although it's usually called dissociative identity disorder now. Milligan was a very early documented case."

"Do you think there is a risk perhaps to see what you want to see because of those earlier cases you have studied so much?"

"There is a risk, yes, but I am careful, too. Not every patient is diagnosed by me with this. In my opinion, Chandler unquestionably has it."

"Which opinion you came to in 15 hours. There are books on this subject, are there not? Mainstream books, I mean, not just professional texts?"

"Yes, there are. _Sybil_, like you mentioned. There is a lengthy book on the Milligan case."

"And these are books which any layman could also obtain and study just in case a defense might ever be needed down the road in the case of an arrest?"

"Yes, but a layman could not fool experts," McKenzie insisted, defensive now. "Those books do not form a step-by-step manual on how to get away with crimes psychiatrically."

Martin let the jury make up their own ideas on that, or at least on whether someone with a high dose of arrogance might try it. The message had gone home, and unlike some lawyers, he found it effective at times to treat the jury as intelligent and let them think instead of trying to spoon feed them. "Down to the personalities you say you observed. There really seems to be amazing timing here with Chandler that none of these women ever encountered the other two."

"Not really. They would only come out when presented with certain stimuli, such as the one who is his father being prompted to appear by his being alone with a small child."

House rolled his eyes and resisted with difficulty saying what a load of crap. Jensen beside him was absolutely caught up in the evidence, on the edge of his seat. House was glad the psychiatrist at least was getting some value out of today while he stuck around waiting to talk to House.

To talk to House. He _knew_ they would be having a session tonight after the girls were down. It couldn't be stalled any longer. He wondered what the chances were of confining it to just wrap-up of the trial, Patrick, and his own evidence. Pretty well nil, he decided. He could always say he wasn't ready to talk about the rest yet, but Jensen would force him to admit that openly, wouldn't just accept an ambiguous dodge. House really didn't want to get into Thornton yet. He needed more facts. Lucas was in the process of getting more evidence, at least while he wasn't in court.

On the other hand, _why_ did he need more evidence? Wasn't what he had enough? He reviewed it mentally, studying the charges point by point, and could find no holes. Plenty to take to the jury with that alone, no need to wait for Lucas.

But shouldn't all evidence be looked at in the decision? He knew the dangers of closing a differential by only looking at part of the picture.

"Greg?" He jumped and realized it was time for a break again. Cuddy, Jensen, and Wilson were all looking at him.

He stood up. "That was interesting," he commented, wondering exactly what the last part of it had been.

"Yes. Martin is good," Jensen agreed. They started for the back hall for another leg stretching walk, arriving there well before Wilson and Martin, who had stopped at the restroom on the way. This time, seizing the privacy, the psychiatrist pushed on verbally just a little. "We'll talk tonight." It was a statement, not a question or even a suggestion. For all that he had been itching to dig into McKenzie himself in the courtroom, he had been focused on House, too, and cared much more.

House hunched a shoulder and didn't reply. He didn't _want_ to talk tonight. Not about Thornton, at least. Cuddy gripped his arm on his non-cane side, an unspoken agreement with Jensen and simultaneous request to her husband. Jensen left it alone after the one statement, just getting the agenda set, and the conversation when the other two joined them was about McKenzie's evidence.

Back in court, Martin continued his relentless carving up of this evidence, bringing out that all specific reported instances of abuse Patrick had told the psychiatrist were similar to ones either mentioned in the media in areas where Patrick had been or ones from House's testimony. At least he hadn't tried stealing the carpet glue, House thought. That would have been too obvious.

The carpet glue. It had been two weeks later that House had made his one-time request of Thornton - and the man had laughed at him and told him he was where he belonged. He should have heard what his son was saying. He should have noticed.

The witness walked past them on his way out, and House suddenly realized that the testimony was over. The judge looked at his watch, then at Martin. "We might have time for your closing speech before we dismiss, Mr. Martin, but it would be pushing it. I think I'll go ahead and dismiss court early, and we can do the closing arguments Monday after the weekend." The judge also knew that they couldn't possibly get in Stevenson's closing for the defense this afternoon, even if Martin's speech would fit, and sticking a whole weekend between the two was a disadvantage to the prosecution. It probably wasn't going to make any difference in this case, but he had to play fair. The judge smacked his gavel down. "Court is adjourned until Monday morning at 8:00."

The room sprang into life with abrupt release of all the repressed activity of the last few hours. House stood up a bit stiffly and was just getting his leg set under him when Ann Bellinger pushed past Wilson and then Jensen to reach him. "Dr. House, I just wanted to thank you again for everything you've done and also for everything you tried to do for us back in October."

He looked at her, meeting her tired, guilty, but sincere eyes. "You're welcome," he said, feeling out of his depth as usual. He hated conversations like this. Somebody else who knew how to deal with these situations ought to be having it instead. He couldn't resist following up on his earlier thought, though. "I hope. . . I hope you're talking to somebody yourself. It does help. You aren't the one who hurt him, you know; that was Patrick."

She looked down. "I know, but I could have prevented it."

Well, there wasn't anything except agreement to give to that, and that would hardly make her feel better. She went on after a pause. "But yes, I am talking to somebody, and you're right, it does help. And this whole trial is at least giving me some closure."

"As long as the jury . . ." House trailed off. Don't tell her the verdict isn't in yet, you idiot. That's not encouraging.

She shook her head. "After hearing you, I'm not worried about the jury. Thank you again." She moved on out into the aisle, leaving him stunned at the tribute.

Cuddy gripped his arm after a minute. "Let's go home, Greg."

"Yeah." Together they left the courtroom.


	24. Chapter 24

Once the girls were tucked in, House walked toward the living room reluctantly, his steps dragging. Cuddy went straight from the nursery into their bedroom with a book and closed the door, silently and firmly putting herself out of the way - although privately, she doubted she'd get much reading done. Starting sessions herself had made her far more aware of the value of privacy and support without pressure from a spouse. A few months ago, she would have acted the same but silently felt somewhat shut out; tonight, she didn't even _wish_ she could be part of this coming session. It would go far better with Jensen alone, and he would have his hands full. She gave a mental salute to the psychiatrist, wishing him luck, and sat down on the bed, then looked at Belle, who was curled up on the foot, posing regally on the bedspread. Cuddy stood back up, picked up the cat, and opened the door softly, thrusting her through the gap before closing the door again. Belle might conceivably be some help to House in the next hour. There was zero resentment or envy in that realization, just the fact. Cuddy returned to the bed, sat there staring at her closed book for a few minutes, and then finally picked up the cell phone, calling Patterson.

The hall, however slowly walked, didn't take that long, and House emerged into the living room to find Jensen already sitting in the armchair. He walked over to the piano and sat down on the cushioned bench, not playing, just sitting there.

Jensen forced himself not to react, but House deliberately putting the largest item in the room between them as a shield up front spoke volumes. This was going to be a very tricky session. The psychiatrist thought that a lot of what they would get into was truly, deeply, subconsciously buried and that House wasn't even aware of it himself. What he so obviously didn't want to talk about was only the tip of the iceberg; what he didn't even realize formed the greater bulk under the waterline. They were finally about to truly dig into John House's brainwashing of his son with regards to his mother, something Jensen had been planning for a while once Patrick Chandler was out of the way as a focus, but this week had introduced totally new data that even the psychiatrist hadn't guessed. House's blazing anger at Thornton had been eye-opening, especially because he had _never_ shown any hint of it in sessions, not even when they had been talking about his biological father, certainly not in all of their extensive discussions about his mother. Not even John drew that much fire, although House was justifiably angry at John, something Jensen had encouraged since it had never been expressed for all those years. But never, in 2 1/2 years of therapy, had House reacted to any topic in any session as strongly as to Thornton the other day. That had been so deeply buried that only under the stimulus of the sudden reappearance of the man himself had it erupted.

"You did well this week," Jensen started. "That was very convincing, very effective." House relaxed a little, responding automatically to the praise. His life had held so little approval and encouragement for decades that he still was thirsty for it, the empty well from childhood not yet filled. He might dismiss it on the surface, but secretly, he always treasured it. "I'm going back to Middletown either later tonight or tomorrow morning, and I won't be back next week, but call me as soon as the verdict is in, would you?"

"It will be all over the news," House pointed out.

"Not that fast. I'm positive what the verdict will be, but I'd still like to know as soon as possible."

House grinned, stringing him along. "If you're so positive of it, why do you need the news or me either one?"

Jensen returned the smile. "Because knowing something mentally still isn't the same thing as hearing it."

"Oh, I don't know. I might not even go back to court myself. Watching TV later on is good enough."

Jensen didn't believe that for a minute. "Oh, you'll be there."

"And you know this _how_?" House demanded, but his tone was still light. This wasn't the session he had dreaded, not so far, at least. Maybe things wouldn't be too bad.

"Because the deliberation isn't over," the psychiatrist replied, letting all of the multiple layers of that response ricochet around the room.

House was immediately serious again. He stared at the keyboard, not meeting Jensen's eyes now, and the silence lengthened for a minute. "I don't want to talk about Thornton yet," he stated.

"Too bad, because you need to. This subject isn't going to be put off."

House stared at him. Always, _always_ Jensen had let him back away from something in sessions as long as he openly admitted that he didn't feel ready to talk about it yet instead of just dodging. One reason the sessions were even bearable was the respect the other man unfailingly brought to them, never pushing too hard, leaving House some sense of control. "So you think you're going to _make_ me?" he challenged, and his voice held none of the teasing of a minute ago.

Jensen shook his head. "I can't make you, Dr. House, but listen to what I said again. _This subject_ isn't going to be put off. The can of worms has been opened, and they are crawling all over you right now. Refusing to talk about it isn't going to do a thing to change the situation, and you can't pretend it doesn't exist."

"I'm _not_ pretending it doesn't exist," House snapped. "I'm just waiting for more information. I hired Lucas to run a background check on him. So see, I'm not just trying to ignore him; I am doing something."

"Good," Jensen replied. "Getting more information on him is a great idea, but you _cannot_ replace facing emotion by facing facts."

"I'm not," House protested, but that didn't carry as much conviction as his last answer.

"Yes, you are. There is legitimate curiosity about him; you especially are good at multitasking. But you're also hoping that having a full background report will diffuse some of your feelings over this, and I'm telling you it won't even touch them. More data isn't the answer to that."

House touched the keyboard, not playing, just automatically reaching for some comfort. "It will _help_," he insisted. "I can sort things out better then."

"It won't help with emotional processing, and there is another huge factor here. Think back just a month ago when Dr. Cuddy was trying so hard not to admit that she felt helpless, scared, and out of control. How much collateral damage was done along the way before she finally was honest with herself?"

"Now that is _not_ fair. You're saying I'll hurt her and the girls with this, but it isn't the same thing at all."

"Really? How is it different? Think about them the last few days and try to tell yourself that there's nothing additional bothering them besides the trial."

House lurched to his feet, suddenly feeling trapped by the position he'd been the one to choose. He limped to the window and stared out it. "They _know_ something is up with you," Jensen said. "Even Abby and Rachel. And Dr. Cuddy not only knows that but knows some of what it is, and that scares her even more. She was obviously very worried about you in court today, even though she knew in general what you were so lost thinking about - and don't pretend that it was Patrick. I doubt you even heard a fourth of the evidence presented today."

"I wasn't _that_ distracted," House countered.

"Right. I'll bet I can ask ten questions right now that Dr. Cuddy or James or even Ann Bellinger could answer immediately, facts from testimony today, that you couldn't. Care to take me up on that?" House didn't reply. "Have you told Dr. Cuddy you hired Lucas, by the way?"

"Yes," House said, still looking intently out the window.

"And has she been completely reassured since and acting like she believes that will resolve things?"

House sighed, remembering dozens of looks and moments since then announcing that she was in fact very worried about him. And the girls. . . he had been trying to tell himself it was just the tension of the trial they were picking up on, but they hadn't been completely themselves all week. "Putting this off will only harm your family," Jensen repeated. "Sweeping strong emotions under the rug will _always_ backfire, Dr. House. Always. And it will hurt not just you but those you love, too. Every day you put it off, the impact on them grows more."

House turned abruptly and limped a circuit of the living room. Jensen watched him but gave him a moment, not pushing on right now. House finally dropped into the couch, but he was sitting upright as if it were hard wood instead of cushions, and he didn't stretch his leg out at all. He looked like a kid sitting in a chair in the schoolroom, facing a dreaded test. "This _is_ a paid session," he insisted, daring Jensen to argue with him and kind of hoping he would to delay things a little longer.

"Yes," the psychiatrist agreed, catching House off guard. He had expected at least _some_ debate on that.

At that moment, Belle jumped up onto the couch, studied House, and then entered his lap one slow paw at a time, ears back, obviously disapproving of his stiff posture, which wasn't feline friendly. "Oh, shut up," he said, but there was amusement back in the tone. "_He's _being paid to criticize me. You aren't." The cat turned three circles, trying to adjust for the most comfortable position, and finally settled down, managing to push his back against the cushions as he shifted slightly to accommodate her.

Jensen smiled, wondering again as he had last fall about the therapeutic value of an office cat. House met his eyes, still looking a little rebellious. "Okay," House started. "So here comes Thornton again, the prodigal father, wanting to march straight into my life, and he's 52 years too late. We now have the facts on the table. So analyze that to pieces since you insist, but you'll never convince me he didn't make mistakes."

"I'm not going to try to. He definitely has made mistakes."

"He _laughed_ at me. I tried to ask for help, and he laughed at me and told me I was where I belonged." The flames were flaring up again as House thought about it. "He should have noticed. He should have _done something._" The cat gave a protesting squawk, and he realized suddenly that his hand had closed down hard on her. He released his grip and scratched her ears in unspoken apology, but his breathing was still accelerating. "A parent is supposed to _protect _his kids."

"I agree," said Jensen. He'd hoped to get a little further in before resorting to Ativan, but House was ramping up just thinking about Thornton now that he'd stopped fighting the subject. "A parent definitely needs to look out for the kids."

"He never even saw it," House snapped. "And now he wants to know the _girls_? He's not fit to be around them."

"To do him justice, I do think he wants to know you, too, not just the girls."

"Yeah, right. He probably paid you the other night to take up for him," House accused. He saw the quick flare of hurt in the psychiatrist's eyes and was caught up short himself as he realized what he had just said. He didn't really believe that; he'd just been lashing out at whatever was nearest, seizing any available ammunition his mind tripped across. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking down.

Jensen took a deep breath himself. "Apology accepted. But I _do_ agree with you, Dr. House, that he's made a lot of errors. I just think he truly regrets them now that he knows."

"He _regrets_ them? Boy, that undoes everything, doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't, but it's at least a start to healing," Jensen replied. "Do you _want_ healing on this, Dr. House?"

House tried to stop to think about it a minute. Beneath the fury, he really did regret what he had just said, and he didn't want to lash out at random again. "I don't think it's possible," he said finally.

Which didn't answer the question, Jensen thought. Or rather, by implication, it did. He didn't point that out to House at the moment, though. "Think about your mother for a few minutes. Your relationship with her is better than it once was."

Predictably, that settled him down a little. His mother was annoying and exasperating, but thinking of her immediately toned down the fury. Jensen was more convinced than ever of his new private theory from this week. "_She's_ actually trying these days," House commented. "Therapy is helping her."

"Yes, once she found out what had happened in your childhood."

"Once _Wilson_ told her what had happened in my childhood," House corrected.

"Yes, that's what I meant. Take an Ativan," Jensen told him, wishing now that he had asked him to earlier.

House looked at him, suddenly suspicious. "Why? I'll admit I was getting a little riled up there, but that was a minute ago. Aren't we supposed to deal with things _without_ drugs if possible?" The blue microscope focused. "You don't think we're really to the point of all this yet, do you? If that - that _sperm donor _and his total lack of notice of me isn't the focal point of this session, what the hell is?" His eyes blazed up again just thinking of Thornton. "Besides, I can't take one. They're back in the bedroom." He gave a satisfied smirk there, settling back against the back cushion of the couch again.

"Nice try," Jensen said. "That was your safety valve, wasn't it? Start a session without them available, and if things started getting too uncomfortable, we'd have to stop completely, because you wouldn't want to disturb Dr. Cuddy getting the meds and get her more worried." The psychiatrist pulled out his wallet and extracted a pill. "I brought a few along with me for this week, just in case it was needed and you had left the bottle at home."

House shook his head. "You and Lisa both," he muttered. He _had_ left the bottles at home, Ativan and the other prns, too, but he was glad she had brought along some of his discarded meds this week.

"Take it, Dr. House."

House slowly took the pill, then gave Jensen a challenging stare. "So _what_ is the point of all this? You agree that Thornton screwed up, but you think I should give him a chance anyway?"

Jensen left his recommendation on that unspoken; this wasn't the right moment. "Go back to what you just said about your mother, that James told her about your past."

"Right. Weren't you kind of involved in all that? What do I need to remind you for?" In fact, Wilson had told Blythe on the very same day and nearly the same hour that House had first met Jensen.

"Why did James have to tell her? Why didn't she know already?"

"I never told her." House shivered suddenly. "You _know_ that, damn it. I couldn't tell her. John had promised me . . ." He trailed off, but John's voice from memory finished the statement. _I will kill her, and it will be your fault_.

"Yes, I remember. Over and over again, drilling that into you to the point that it amounted to brainwashing. But my question was a little different. Why hadn't your mother noticed on her own?"

House was tightening up again, even with Ativan. "She . . . she's never been the most observant person around."

"But she was _there_. Throughout your childhood, she was there, living in the same house, and she was your parent. We agreed up front that one of a parent's strongest responsibilities is to protect the child."

House surged off the couch, dislodging the cat, rising so abruptly that his leg yelped at him. He ignored it beyond a flinch and resumed limp pacing. "Exactly. Which _he _never did. Not even when I asked him for help!" He had flipped immediately, desperately back to Thornton.

"But we weren't talking about Thornton just now," Jensen reminded him. "We were talking about your mother." House stopped abruptly and faced him, and his leg protested sharply on the sudden turn and tried to buckle. "And hurting yourself isn't going to get you out of where we're heading," Jensen continued. "We'll still have to go there."

"I wasn't trying . . ."

"I think your subconscious might have been. Tell me, Dr. House, why shouldn't your mother have noticed what was going on? What about _her_ responsibility as a parent?"

"She . . ." House resumed pacing, his breathing progressively uneven. Jensen was glad he had insisted on the Ativan. "She didn't know. She really didn't know."

"I agree with that. But she _should_ have."

"It _wasn't _like Thornton."

"What's the difference between them?"

"I _asked him_, damn it. I tried to tell him we needed help."

"Why didn't you ever ask her?"

"Dad - _John_ would have . . ." House tripped again on a turn, tweaking himself sharply enough that time that his leg forced him to stop for a moment. He switched his cane to his left hand and clawed at the protesting muscle with his right.

Jensen slowly stood up and went over, taking his arm gently. "Sit down, Dr. House. It's okay; the threat is over."

House let himself be steered back to the couch, though he still didn't stretch his leg out. Belle immediately climbed back into his lap, centered herself on his good leg, and started purring solicitously while glaring at Jensen. "Just breathe for a minute," the psychiatrist said.

House took his advice. Jensen sat down on the couch next to him, not crowding him but a lot closer than previously. "You're trying to wind me up," House accused after a minute. "Then you tell me to calm down. Would you make up your mind what it is you're after?"

"I'm trying to make you think about a few things that I believe John's threat totally sealed off for you. I _know_ this is hard for you." Jensen also knew that if he had tried this in the early stages of their therapy, House not only would have completely shut down but would have walked out the door, his mind defending itself in flight. Still, the psychiatrist was glad the subject hadn't been fully explored until now; without the new revelations on House's deeply repressed feelings aimed at Thornton, he had been missing some vital puzzle pieces. "John's threat is over, Dr. House. Can we agree on that? He can't do anything at this point; he's in hell where he belongs."

House looked comforted by the reminder but still deflected in sarcasm. "Well, I _know_ that. He's sort of dead, after all."

Jensen smiled at him. "Not just sort of dead; he's _completely_ dead. Not even the man from the _Princess Bride_ could bring him back." House gave a feeble grin at the movie reference. "But because of him, you have always thought that it was your responsibility to protect your mother. That's been absolutely pounded into you. And because of that, you are unable to see her faults."

"Believe me, I see _plenty_ of her faults."

"Some, yes. But the major one that _she_ had a responsibility to _you_ is blocked out by you thinking you had a responsibility to protect her."

"She didn't know," House repeated.

"I realize that. That fact doesn't excuse her, though. Quite the opposite; it only points straight to her failing. Try to think about it logically for a minute. Again, what is the difference between her and Thornton?"

House tightened up again just thinking about Thornton. "He _laughed_ at me," he repeated. "About . . . what was going on. He thought I was making a _joke_."

"Tell me, Dr. House, how many times in childhood did your mother just dismiss injuries and say to either you or even to others that you were so clumsy? You can't even count them, can you? Didn't she sometimes make that into a joke, just laugh or say it in a dismissive way?"

"She didn't . . . realize it wasn't one. She thought it was true."

"Do you think Thornton realized what you were really asking? Didn't he honestly think it was just a child's passing whim?"

"But I never asked her for help," House said. "I told her myself I was just clumsy. The _only_ time I ever asked anybody, even shielded, it was him."

"I know. Actually, that tells me quite a bit. When you really need help, you turn to someone you think is capable of giving it. Even at 6, you picked out Thornton, not your mother, and even given John's threat involving your mother, that says a lot for your perception. Talking to either one of them risked running into the threat; you picked him because you knew already that she was useless to you and that he potentially wasn't. What you said to Thornton still came close to the limit for John, didn't it?"

House shuddered again in memory. "Yes. He made sure I realized that." The fires flared up again. "And _every single time_ after that, whenever Thornton would visit, John would give me a 'reminder' first. The injuries were right there for him to see." He shifted abruptly, obviously intending to get up to pace again, and his leg went into a spasm. He closed his eyes against the pain.

Jensen moved from his left side to right, reaching for the offending limb, and House pulled his own hand away. Someone else always had a better angle on it than he did himself. Jensen worked out the spasm carefully, watching House's features slowly relax. "Is that better?" he asked after a few minutes.

"Yes." House's confirmation broke off in a hiss of pain as Jensen's fingers found one last holdout of cramping muscle and began to work on it. In the next moment, the psychiatrist himself jumped, pulling back, and House opened his eyes, puzzled. Jensen was staring down at a bleeding set of claw marks clear down his left forearm. Belle, still in House's lap perched on the good leg, pinned her ears flat back as she hissed at him.

House laughed. "Did she just. . .?" Jensen reached for his leg again, and Belle swatted like lightning. The psychiatrist was ready for her that time and escaped unscathed. House firmly moved the cat off of his lap onto the unoccupied cushion on his left. "Thanks for the thought, but I can handle him, Cat. He was only trying to help me." Jensen had hold of his leg again, chasing out the final protests of the muscle, and Belle watched closely under restraint from the other side. Finally, the cramp was fully gone, and Jensen sat back.

"On second thought," he said, "there might be occasional drawbacks to the idea of having an office cat." He looked at his bleeding arm, then at the other one. Since he had changed into a T-shirt and jeans when they got home that afternoon after court, the large scar on his right forearm was exposed and visible. Rachel had found it quite fascinating earlier, fingering it and asking him what had happened, and he had given her an accurate enough description to put the fear of fire into her.

"Good thing that wasn't your other arm across the damaged tissue and the grafts," House noted. "You need to clean out those scratches."

"I will in a little while." Jensen shook his head and looked over at the white cat. She hissed at him again. "See how many friends you have now who are willing to stand up for you, Dr. House?" House grinned. Some of the tension was broken, at least, in him as well as in his leg. Jensen carefully approached the central thought again. "How often did Thornton visit you?"

"Every year or two."

"So it was intermittent. Your mother was there all the time, Dr. House. As many injuries as Thornton saw, she had to see many, many times that number."

"I never outright told her, though," House insisted.

"You didn't _outright_ tell Thornton, but let's shift reference sets for a moment. A month ago, Dr. Cuddy was starting to go too far with her moodiness and its impact on the girls. Did Abby or Rachel actually say to you, in the precise words, that she was starting to bother them?"

"No, of course not. They're _kids_."

"As were you, Dr. House. Why should it be your responsibility to protect your mother instead of vice versa? John warped your thinking with that threat. Like I said, it amounts to brainwashing. You need to realize that now. No matter what Rachel and Abby said or didn't say, you had a responsibility to be paying attention to them - which you _were_. You did well with them. But every single adult in your childhood, _especially_ your mother, who had the most opportunity to see it, failed you."

"So you're saying that I should give Thornton a chance because you think Mom screwed up as much?"

"Actually, she screwed up quite a bit _more_. She was there full time. He wasn't. But that's only part of what I'm saying. In two and a half years, Dr. House, we've talked about John, your mother often, even Thornton a few times. You had already told me about asking him for help when you were 6 and what he told you. But I've never seen you as angry before as you were Tuesday afternoon in court when you spotted him."

House fired back up somewhat just thinking of it. "Don't you think I've got a right to be angry at him? He _left _me there with John."

"I think you have every right to be angry at him," Jensen assured him. "But I don't think you're just angry at _him_, and you need to know that when you're considering what to do with his request."

House rolled his eyes. "I know you want me to jump to your conclusion myself, but I'm too tired to jump tonight. So tell me, what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I think part of your intense anger at him is actually anger against your mother transferred over."

"But I'm _not_ mad at Mom."

"Precisely. That's why I said transferred over. John's repeated threat has made it impossible for you to be angry at her from your childhood on, since you thought you had the responsibility to protect her rather than vice versa. I've wondered a few times where that anger had gone, Dr. House. It had to have gone somewhere. I've actually _looked_ for it without saying so, probing around different subjects, _including_ talking about Thornton, and I'd never run into it. It was _so_ deeply buried that it never emerged until you unexpectedly found yourself face to face with him."

House shook his head. "It's a nifty psychiatric theory, but I don't think so."

"If you aren't transferring anger from another target and adding it to the justifiable anger against him, then you're just acting completely illogically."

_That_ got House's attention. "How?" he asked defensively. He hated any suggestion that he wasn't making sense.

"I heard what you said to Ann Bellinger. Interesting what she said back to you, too. She is dealing with the guilt over Christopher's abuse and death, because, as she correctly pointed out, she could have prevented it. She failed in her parenting responsibility. I have all the sympathy in the world for her, and I hope she ultimately can deal with this, but it _is_ a fact that she failed in that responsibility. Yet _you_ were exonerating her. She was the one who brought up her failure, not you."

"Yeah, like I'd say to her right there in court, 'This is all your fault.'"

"You weren't just being socially polite. You excused her for everything, probably because she reminds you in many ways of your mother. I could see several similarities between them in personality myself."

House considered that point, then nodded. "They have a few things in common, but still, she really didn't know."

"Neither did your mother. Neither did Thornton; yet you think that he should have. And _that's_ where you are acting completely illogically, Dr. House. You are convicting him of the crime of not noticing while he only visited briefly every year or two, yet at the same time, you excuse your mother, who had years and years of _constant _exposure to the truth. The evidence against her is _far_ more, infinitely more, than the evidence against him. You can't rationally blame him and excuse her at the same time for the same crime."

House was tensing up again, fine tremors running through him, and Belle, still confined to his other side, reached out to put a paw on his left leg and hissed at Jensen again. House didn't even smile this time. "I don't . . . I don't _think_ I'm mad at her." He was struggling, fighting against decades of brainwashing. Jensen knew it was time to back off. Always, House needed space to finally process something.

"Just think about it, Dr. House. I apologize for pushing you to this tonight. I'd rather have waited until everything with Patrick was over and you'd had some time to relax after that. But Thornton has changed the timetable. Just be sure while you're deciding what to do about him that you aren't putting more on him than goes with him. He has made mistakes, but other people made more." Jensen touched the scar on his right arm. "I also know about anger myself. That much anger like you suddenly showed Tuesday is destructive, Dr. House. It will hurt you and people around you. Don't waste time trying to hide it like I did. I know it's been suppressed, but now that the can of worms is open, you need to deal with it. Like I said, those worms are crawling all over you right now, and your family already sees them, including the girls. Whoever the anger is against, Thornton or your mother or both, you need to face it and acknowledge it to take away its destructive power and ultimately move on."

House cringed. "Nice image on the worms," he said sarcastically, but he was still trembling slightly.

"We've done enough," Jensen told him. "Go on to bed, Dr. House, and just take this weekend to enjoy your family. And again, you did an excellent job against Patrick." He looked at his watch. "Speaking of enjoying family, I'll get my things and go ahead and leave. I can still make Middletown by 11:00."

House pushed the cat aside. "Wait a minute." He heaved himself to his feet, then returned a minute later with the first aid kit. He carefully cleaned and disinfected the scratches down Jensen's arm, then closed the kit. Jensen stood up and headed into the guest room. When he returned five minutes later with his suitcase, House was still sitting on the couch holding the cat, obviously waiting for him. "Got to lock up after you leave," he said in excuse, but just as Jensen was walking out the door, House spoke again softly. "What did you think of him?"

Jensen turned back to face him. "I think he regrets his mistakes. He's not denying them. He has much more intelligence and sensitivity than your mother. In many ways, he reminded me of you."

House looked away, outwardly dismissing the assessment even while storing it for later differential. "Night, Jensen."

"Good night, Dr. House. Call me with the verdict, okay?"

"I will." House closed the door and locked it, then watched out the window as the psychiatrist's car pulled away. "Bad cat," he said to Belle, but there was no annoyance in his tone. She yawned at him and groomed her shoulder.

House walked down the hall, stopping in the bathroom, then again in the nursery, spending a few minutes watching his girls, thinking of his responsibility to them. Finally, he opened the bedroom door. Cuddy was off the phone long since and was sitting there on the bed not reading. She stood up as he entered the bedroom, looked at his face, then opened her arms without questions. He leaned into her, burying his face in her hair, and held safe in her fierce embrace, even though it took a few minutes, he finally stopped trembling.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: I have heard from many that tonight is the last House. Farewell to what was a great series, and I will always remember Hugh Laurie and various moments from the episodes. My own funeral for the show was held quite a while ago, but I do think the show is worth mourning. Tonight will make no difference to me, as I haven't watched in a few seasons, and my own fic will go on as long as my muse chooses. It isn't up to me. She never runs out of ideas, at least never has in my life so far, but she does sometimes switch gears and jump into something else entirely. As for Pranks, I'm pretty sure it will be around for a while. After Verdict comes a one-shot that is quite unique and will be a different direction for Pranks, with a good bit of humor in it. After that is another full-length, involved story, although that one has a whole lot of cooking left to go, so it's possible that there might be a gap in between the one-shot and it. I do have a few RL writing projects, too, and there's only so much time in a day.

Enjoy chapter 25. It's now Saturday in Verdict world. The story ends Tuesday. Days go a bit faster from here on, though. Next chapter will conclude Saturday and will return to the Cuddy-House house, where House's routine Saturday night call from Blythe is a little less than routine this week.

(H/C)

_Hey, Tom. _

_Good to hear from you. It's been too long. I didn't know you were back from your trip around Europe._

_I don't know Stevenson myself, but I asked some friends and professional connections in Jersey who do. The Chandler trial is his biggest case of his career, but his reputation to date is questionable. He's known for underhanded tactics on cross and trying to manipulate witnesses and trick them out of their stories, or trying to just batter them down until they start making mistakes. He has _never_ even been suggested to go for strong-arm tactics, though. Even the people who dislike him and think he'll twist anything to his benefit agree that he doesn't go in for violence. His tactics are strictly in the courtroom. Even so, it's generally agreed that he has no interest in truth, just in winning. Several people mentioned the original defense attorney, Bartle, and compared them; generally agreed that Bartle would go further and more into questionable tactics outside the courtroom, but that Stevenson is equally dishonest, just shorter on guts. I had fun imagining both of them dumped into boot camp with Sergeant Saminski way back in the day. Suck-it-up Sam wouldn't have taken any crap from them and might have installed a backbone. Maybe not. Even he couldn't do miracles. _

_Can you believe all this about John House? At first I couldn't, but the more I thought about him, the more I can. He felt a little _wrong_ at times, nothing I could put my finger on, but there were moments that pulled me up for a second even back in the Corps. Maybe that's just making things up in retrospect, but I doubt it. You probably know what I mean; you knew him better than I did. Still, I never would have guessed this was going on. We all knew he loved that kid, at least when he was born. The only other time I was stationed with him, Greg was 11, and they were definitely at odds, but no question the kid was a smart ass, too. Made me want to toss _him_ into boot camp with old Sam a few times. I thought he was just going into adolescent rebellious phase. Sounds like he's really been successful, in spite of John. It will be good to get this Chandler locked away. Hope he has fun in prison; once word gets around, the others will show him some justice of their own. The bastard deserves it. _

_Give me a call sometime if you feel like it. _

_Semper fi, _

_Dave _

Thomas Thornton smiled reading over the email. It was a multiple personality smile; Chandler's psychiatrist would have approved.

Part of him was remembering what a good friend Dave had been over the years. He hadn't seen him since the funeral, when Thomas had said he was going away for a while and not to worry if no one heard anything. He knew he had shut people out, that his world the last few years had distilled down only to Emily's battle, and then the gaping loss had left him numb. Europe _had_ helped some, but he knew there were friends who would have been willing to be more of a support in all of it. He had always been somewhat of a solitary thinker. But he also knew, after Emily, that he did not want to be alone, and that was the conclusion that he had finally come to in Europe. Even if no one else was her or their son, he still had a support circle, people who would be glad to be there for him, and that support circle was back in the States, not in some other country. He hadn't been running away from grief, realizing from the start that he took it with him, but part of him had wondered if anyplace could ever again be home, so he had gone to places that definitely weren't while he processed things. Ultimately, though, he still had a home, and he still had friends, and he had been returning. He had even, ironically, thought of contacting Greg, just in the "family friend" persona, and getting to know him better. Then he had opened the newspaper in St. Louis, and his plans had shattered.

The other half of his smile, though, was sinister, his mind plotting at full speed. So Stevenson wasn't into violence or physical threats at all. Combined with the reply to his other email, that _was_ interesting. The other source had pulled a few strings in record searching that Thomas himself would have had a much harder time pulling, and he reported that Stevenson had been dismissed from the Army diagnosed with personality disorder, the general consensus that he could not take the discipline and stress of military life. He had seen a few military psychiatrists before discharge, and further counseling had been recommended on the outside. No way to know if he had taken it.

The man was merely a coward, using words to make himself feel important and competent, tearing other people down to make himself feel better, but under physical or even personally directed psychological stress, he would crumble.

Thomas knew now what he was going to do. But not yet, not yet. He couldn't do anything until the trial was over and the verdict in, couldn't give Stevenson anything he might possibly use in this case. The media didn't need to know, and above all, Greg didn't need to know. This was only between Thomas and the man who had tried to publicly shame his son and use Thomas' own errors to belittle him.

Tonight, he would keep an eye on the defense attorney, seeing if his weekend (or by extension perhaps post verdict) schedule varied from his weekday one, and then Thornton would return to the bar afterward for more chitchat. The bartender knew him well now after the last few nights and thought him a harmless, chatty, somewhat-slow old geezer. Drop by drop, information was squeezed out of their conversations, the other man never the wiser.

Tonight was still several hours off, though. Thomas thought of going to the park, then decided not to. Greg might be there on the weekend with the girls, and while he longed to see his granddaughters, he knew it must be by invitation. Bumping into the psychiatrist had been pure chance; Greg would never believe that story again. He hoped Greg had believed it the first time and hadn't held it against his therapist and friend, but the two of them when spotted in the lobby several times since had seemed to be okay, no extra tension between them.

He finally wound up not at the park but at the hospital itself. He figured that was safe. Greg would definitely be spending today with his family after this week, and the hospital, during the day on a weekend, would have plenty of visitors around. No one would look twice at a stranger. He had been to PPTH once before, right after Greg's infarction surgery, for that unknown visit, but that time, he had been focused purely on his son and hadn't noticed the surroundings at all. He normally was quite observant, but Thomas could also develop a tunnel vision that was fiercely narrowed when his teeth were set into some subject; Emily had teased him at times about it.

Now he walked around the facility, feeling like he was taking a tour of Greg's working life. Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House's office was obvious on the main floor; it was dark. He didn't pause there but gave it a sweeping, detail-absorbing glance on the way by. It looked briskly professional. There was also a free clinic, and Thomas wondered if Greg had to put in hours there. Probably not; he certainly sounded busy enough, and the extended time on his feet in and out of exam rooms would bother his leg, too. That actually might be a good thing for the visitors to the clinic. Thomas imagined his brilliant son's reaction to a standard cold that some patient was sure required immediate and extensive expert treatment. No, better for Greg and for the clinic patients to use him elsewhere.

Then there was the cafeteria. He pictured his son having lunch here every day, or hopefully having it every day. Greg shared Thomas' lean build, but he took it even further; he really was a little too thin. Thomas imagined him getting distracted on a case and forgetting to eat. Hopefully one of his friends or his wife would make sure he stopped now and then to refuel when he was totally locked in medically on some challenging patient.

Finally, he went over to the elevators to consult the directory. The Department of Diagnostic Medicine was on the fourth floor, and Thomas took the car up. This floor was apparently mostly offices and was fairly deserted on Saturday. Greg's office was easy to find, not far from the elevator, and Thomas studied it, surprised to find that the front wall was of glass. The blinds were not drawn, although the lights were off. A large office, dual suite. Part of it was the conference area for sessions with his team, but the larger part was obviously Greg's alone. With the hall empty and no one to see, Thomas stood still, taking in all the details of the room, from the books and the art to the ball and the Eames chair. His son's office. Next to his home, this was where Greg would spent most of his time. Thomas reached out to trace the letters on the glass: Gregory House, MD.

His son had done well, as Dave had noted. In spite of John, in spite of _himself_, in spite of Blythe, his son was successful. And he had a true family now.

While he was thinking and looking at the letters, Thomas' hand slipped lower automatically, and he froze as the door started to open to his touch. Immediately, he backed up two feet, putting a barrier there, fighting temptation.

The office was unlocked.

So much more could be seen from the inside. Was there a picture somewhere, even, a picture that included his granddaughters?

But he couldn't go in uninvited. Whether the office was locked or not, Thomas knew it was locked to him. Standing on the outside looking through the glass was the limit to his range right now.

But would Greg ever have to know?

Shoving both hands in his pockets to resist temptation, Thomas firmly stepped away, and just as he had started to turn back toward the elevator, it opened. A well-built man of Indian descent stepped out with the confidence of someone who belonged on this floor, not a visitor, not a patient's family member, not a patient. He made a beeline for the diagnostics suite, and Thomas realized with a chill how differently things could have turned out if he had yielded to the urge to snoop in earnest a minute ago.

"May I help you find something?" the man asked. His voice was pleasant, eager, perfectly willing to be helpful.

Thomas shook his head. "Thanks, but I was just taking a walk around the hospital, stretching my legs."

The other man nodded, easily accepting Thomas' implied identity of a patient's family member. "You saw Dr. House's name while you were walking by?"

This man was quick; he realized Thomas had been standing there just before the elevator opened, not walking. "Yes, I did," Thomas agreed. "I had seen him mentioned on the news this week." Absolutely true. He hadn't told a direct lie so far in this conversation. Fortunately, curiosity about House at the moment seemed common; staff had probably had some other sightseers. "Do you work with him?" Thomas asked. He thought he must. The man smelled like a fresh hamburger; he was probably a team member here doing odd paperwork or something on the weekend, and he had left the office unlocked as he went down for lunch break.

"Yes, I do. I'm Dr. Lawrence Kutner; I'm on his team." Kutner waited politely for the other name in return.

Thornton changed conversational directions, trying to appear just as the eager public, zeroed in on the doctor in the news, not like he was dodging that question. "So is he everything the media says he is?"

Kutner's grin widened. "More." He obviously looked up to his boss.

Thomas looked at his watch. "Well, I'd better be getting back." He didn't say to where. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Kutner."

"And you."

Once safely in the elevator, Thomas took another moment to thank his lucky stars that he hadn't actually gone into Greg's office. He stopped in the cafeteria for lunch, trying to pick what he imagined Greg having, and then he left PPTH. Outside, he did turn back for a final look, pinpointing the balcony that had to access from Greg's office. He had noticed the outside door through the glass, and it was easy enough to compare inner and outer building orientations. He pictured Greg standing there, looking out over Princeton, either in mid-case thought or in post-case satisfaction.

Resisting again the lure of the park, Thomas returned to his car.


	26. Chapter 26

To Cuddy's worried eye, House was obviously struggling on Saturday. He was _too_ bright and playful with the girls, pulling pranks, making jokes, and throwing himself with vigor into the day with them as if he were a third child. But regularly, there would be moments where a shadow passed over his face, as from a swiftly moving cloud, before he caught himself and dove into family time again.

He hadn't said a word about last night's session with Jensen, and she hadn't pushed. She was assuming that Patterson was right in her theory, that Blythe and not just Patrick or Thornton had wound up being the main topic, but Patterson had also warned her to leave digging into that subject to Jensen. Besides, Cuddy didn't quite trust herself in talking about Blythe; her own scorching anger might flare up at the wrong moment, spooking him from further discussion. No, he needed some differential time to himself at the moment. The thing was, brainwashing could not be dismissed as simply as reading a test result on lab reports and confirming the diagnosis. By definition, conclusions programmed in this fiercely did not make sense, because if they _did_ make sense, the pounding the point home over decades wouldn't have been required to confirm them.

She trusted Jensen. And Jensen had thoroughly shaken him up last night and then had immediately left, not just returning to his family but symbolically giving House space to process in. Jensen knew that this would take a while and couldn't be resolved in one session or even one day. She would follow his lead - except for the leaving part.

The girls were both delighted to have a full day of their parents, and Cuddy and House tried to make it a special one as a silent apology for the last week. In the morning, they went to the park - although House insisted on a different park - and after lunch and a quick nap, they went to Philadelphia to the zoo. Both girls loved the zoo, though in different ways. Rachel was a whirlwind, loving the variety of the animals, always wanting to see what was next. Abby liked to spend longer at an exhibit, studying each animal for a while, and House and Cuddy tried to compromise, designating each "Rachel's animal" or "Abby's animal" in turn. It was a thoroughly happy, sunbaked, and tired family who returned to Princeton that evening, finishing out the day by eating at McDonald's on the drive back instead of getting something at home. The girls were asleep before even reaching the nursery.

Cuddy closed the nursery door softly and headed back down the hall to the living room to find her husband, who had left a minute earlier. He was sitting on the couch, silently massaging his leg, and she sat down next to him and took over the duties, careful not to say anything or let him see perceived pity. The zoo was hard on House, even with regular breaks. They always tried to have an "Abby's animal" if a bench happened to be nearby, and they had used the zoo tram to cover major distances between exhibits, but she knew that realistically as the girls got faster, before many years down the road, he would be renting one of those motorized carts that the zoo had available. He wasn't ready for that yet, but it was coming. The leg wasn't spasming, but it was quivering just slightly under her hand. She gently worked on the offended muscle. "That was a good day," she said.

He nodded. "We need to download the pictures. I think there were some really good ones at the petting zoo."

"Yes. Rachel grabbing the pygmy goat by the ears was cute."

"So was Abby trying to correct her and show proper technique." They smiled together, enjoying the differences in their girls.

"What are we going to do tomorrow?" she asked.

"See, now _that's_ the problem when you try to make an extra-special day for people. Set the bar too high, and there's nowhere to go but down."

"We don't have to try to top today with them, Greg. I'm sure just time as a family would be enough."

Belle jumped up at that moment, left behind for the day and thus short on petting. House obligingly scratched her ears. She stared at Cuddy, who was still gently massaging his leg, and House firmly said, "No."

Cuddy stopped for a moment. "No?"

"Talking to the cat. She was thinking bad thoughts."

Cuddy laughed. "Not that I'm doubting you, Greg, but just how do you know she was thinking bad thoughts?"

"She scratched Jensen up pretty badly last night." It was the first time he had mentioned the session, even peripherally.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, long as they don't get infected, and I did clean them out. I had a spasm at one point, and he was helping me. He hit a touchy spot, I jumped, and Belle took offense to it. She was looking at you just now wondering if you were hurting me, too."

"See how many friends you have now, Greg?" Cuddy asked, unwittingly echoing the psychiatrist. She switched her attention to Belle. "I am _not_ hurting him, for your information, and just because we, um, might make sounds sometimes when we're touching each other doesn't mean you need to jump in to defend him, either."

House grinned. "Now _that_ extension hadn't occurred to me."

At that moment, his cell phone rang, and he pulled it out, his lighthearted expression evaporating.

It was Blythe. She always called on Saturday nights after the girls were in bed, and although he had spent much of today thinking about her, he had somehow forgotten that fact. He considered not answering, but she would be worried then and would call Cuddy and the house number and then Wilson. No, the quickest way to get rid of her was to have a normal but short conversation, pleading tiredness. Reluctantly, he stood up. "Mom. I'll take it in the bedroom."

Cuddy, left on the couch with Belle, sat there thinking and worrying for a minute. Belle gave a questioning trill and moved over, bumping her hand. "If you want to know somebody who deserves to have a scratch taken out of her, I have better candidates," Cuddy told her. "You leave Jensen alone. He's on our side."

Back in the bedroom, House closed the door as he answered. "Hi, Mom."

"Are you busy, Greg? It took you a while to answer."

"No, we've just had a long day. We only got in a little while ago." A second later, he could have kicked himself - well, if he _could_ have kicked himself, which he couldn't. That had been the perfect opportunity to shut her down tonight, just to agree that he was busy. The trouble was, he had never been able to lie to her, not on the little subjects. The one big lie about his father at the center of their relationship had loomed so large that he had tried to keep strict truth in everything else.

"Where did you get in from, Greg?"

He sat down on the bed, working his leg up. "We took the girls to the zoo this afternoon."

"Oh, what fun. I hope you got some pictures. You'll have to send them to me."

"Yes, Lisa got pictures, and we'll send you some." He sighed. "I am kind of tired tonight, though." That wasn't a lie, he told himself. Perfectly true.

"Of course you are, dear. All that walking." He flinched. "Well, I won't keep you long, but I did want to say how proud I am of you, Greg. I've been watching the news this week." They had asked her not to call during the days of his testimony, saying that he needed to focus on that. "You were wonderful. I'm sure the jury will convict this man after hearing you."

"That's what Jensen thinks, too." And Ann Bellinger. And Wilson. No doubt Cuddy did, too. Even Martin was confident. Was he the only one capable of remembering that the verdict was still out? "Have you heard from Thomas Thornton lately?" He jumped, trying to retract the words. Where the hell had _that_ come from? He had spoken unintentionally while his mind was still occupied thinking about the trial.

Not that he hadn't wondered. There was not only Thornton's story of no contact with Blythe since John's funeral, which seemed a stretch (but his _wife_ was dying, the other side of his mind threw in), but Thornton might well have called her since their encounter Tuesday night, fishing for details on those enticing grandchildren. Blythe would have talked to him, never suspecting. Thornton could have played her like a fish on a line.

Yes, that made sense. He needed to tell her not to give details to Thornton. But how to bring that up casually? They never talked about Thornton. She had tried a few times since discovering his past and that he knew, and he had always slammed the door on the topic.

Blythe had been silent for several moments while he was thinking. "Where on earth did _that_ thought come from, Greg?"

"Oh, I was just thinking the other day that he might have seen the media about the trial or something." He cringed, hearing the lie. It's _not_ a lie, he tried to convince himself. Thornton _did_ see the media about the trial. So he says.

Blythe heard the lie, too. "Greg, is something going on that I don't know about?"

_Is something going on that I don't know about?_

The question bounced around inside his mind, growing larger at each turn until it seemed to be screaming at him. "There were a LOT of things going on that you didn't know about," he snapped suddenly. "If you ever _had_ gone to college, you would have majored in oblivion." He heard the words as if at a distance. His body had started to tremble again, just as last night.

Another pause. "Greg, I _know_ I missed a lot. I've apologized for that. But why do you wonder tonight suddenly about Thornton? Are you sure you're all right, dear?"

"Just _answer_ the damned question, would you?" Although the answer was obvious. She would never be this stunned at the introduction of the subject if she had already had it in mind. No, she hadn't heard from him, not in a long time. _He didn't try to get information on the girls_, his mind whispered, amazed, and he slammed that thought door.

"No," she echoed his thought. "I haven't talked to him since John's funeral. I know his wife was probably dying, though; she was already clearly ill then. Cancer, he said, and the outlook wasn't good, even with treatment. I assumed he had his hands full with her. I can understand him being distracted."

"Yeah, right, everybody has an excuse for everything. How convenient."

"Greg, are you okay?"

"YES, I'm fine. No thanks to him." _Or to you either_, he thought. The trembling was increasing.

"He didn't know what was happening, Greg. He wasn't even _there_ for most of your childhood, just intermittent visits. He didn't have a chance to see it."

"Don't you _dare_ defend him. He LEFT us. He left ME."

"Greg, are you sure you're all right? What brought all this up? Was it thinking about things at the trial?"

"He _should_ have noticed." Part of his mind at a far distance noted that he had switched back to talking about Thornton alone. "Intermittent visits or not, he _did _have a chance to see it."

"But he wasn't. . . Greg, a few hours every year or two isn't really a look at anything. He was always interested in details. I would write to him when I could, when John didn't know, and tell him stories. I asked him not to write back, because John looked through the mail, but I know he kept track of you."

"Little kid stories, cute baby moments. Yeah, he kept track of _those_, but he missed EVERYTHING that mattered with ME!"

"Greg, calm down."

"I don't NEED to calm down," he snapped. "If you haven't talked to him lately, then don't. No more stories. Nothing about me, and _absolutely_ nothing about the girls. Do not tell him ANYTHING. Understand?"

"What . . ."

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" The walls nearly vibrated with the force of that question.

"Yes, Greg. Take it easy. Okay, I won't talk to him anymore or give him details if you don't want. I hadn't heard from him in a few years anyway. But really, Greg, he's not a bad person. He's quite an interesting man; you remind me of him a lot. He never had a chance to pick up on it; he only saw the beginning for any length of time, so he never questioned things later. He saw how much John adored you."

House froze, his accelerated breathing actually catching for a moment. He had to remind himself after a few seconds to breathe again. "_What_ did you say?" That response was abruptly softer but carried even more intensity.

"John loved you. He really did, Greg. I mean, at first he did. I've never seen any father as proud of a child as he was with you. He did adore you. I know he. . . _changed_ as time went on, but it wasn't _like_ that at first. That's what Thomas saw at first while he was stationed with us, and that's what _I _saw. Greg, are you sure you're -"

His finger moved while the rest of his body and mind were paralyzed. He hit the off button, and the call disconnected. He hit off again, and the cell phone died.

Cuddy had sat in the living room stiffly, waiting, worrying, Belle in her lap. She heard his voice raised a few times, the exact words muffled by the door, but obviously, this wasn't the standard Saturday evening call.

Good. She hoped. He needed to come to a few truths about Blythe, but doing it this abruptly had to be a shock to him.

On the other hand, had _anything_ in his life ever been easy?

Still, she was glad the girls were as worn out as they were; the last thing he needed tonight was to think incorrectly that he had hurt them if he woke them up.

Her own cell phone rang after what seemed half an eternity. It was Blythe. "Lisa? Is Greg okay? I swear he just hung up on me, and now his phone goes to voice mail."

Cuddy rocketed to her feet, Belle flying off in self defense. "If he hung up on you, Blythe, that probably means he doesn't want to talk to you anymore tonight. I'll go check on him, but _you_ don't call us again this weekend. Don't call until he calls you back." She hung up on Blythe herself as she was hurrying down the hall.

House was on the bed, staring at the wall, looking frozen into place like a figure from a wax museum. She could see the fine tremors running through him clear from the door, and he was breathing as if he had been running. "Greg?" He looked over at her, and she climbed onto the bed next to him, relieved to get some response. "Take an Ativan, okay?" He fumbled at his pockets with shaking hands, and she wound up pulling out her own and offering him one of those. She put an arm around him. "Blythe called me and said you hung up on her, and I told her to get lost for the rest of the weekend, at least." He gave a feeble grin. "So she won't be bothering us."

They were silent for a few minutes after that, but as he slowly settled down, Cuddy couldn't resist the smallest push. He obviously _needed_ to talk about this. "What happened with her?"

_He saw how much John adored you_. Blythe's words echoed, and again, House shied violently away from them. He _could not_ think about that, not on top of everything else, not while he already was fighting through his perceptions of Thornton and Blythe both. Adding new data on John right now was simply too much. He hit overload and shut down there.

He jerked away from Cuddy, shaking off her arm, hitting his feet so suddenly that his leg protested. "I . . . I'm going out for a -" He skidded to a stop, having almost said he was going out for a run before he remembered that he _couldn't_. "I'm going for a walk," he amended.

Cuddy felt the fear descend, threatening to crush her underneath it. "You _can't_," she blurted out with an edge on her tone. "Your leg has had enough today already."

She knew immediately that it had been the wrong thing to say. His face hardened. "Greg, I didn't mean . . ."

"Actually, I _can_ go for a walk. It's running I can't do anymore, but even a cripple can still take a short walk." He hesitated briefly, anger and his urgent need to get away from these thoughts wrestling with the near panic he saw in her eyes. She was still more on edge than usual about his physical well-being, not fully back to baseline from before the assassination attempt on the President. She _was_ making progress, but it had only been a month. He reached out to pick up his discarded cell phone and turned it back on. "I'm taking the phone with me if you need me. Have an Ativan yourself. Nothing's going to happen to me; I'm just taking a walk." He turned and limped out hurriedly.

Outside, he set off up the street at as brisk a pace as he could manage. She was right, and that annoyed him even more. His leg _was _already at its limit for today, but he ignored it and tried to push away the guilt added on top of all the other emotional layers. He was just taking a walk; there was nothing wrong with that. Even a cripple could still take a short walk. The activity didn't seem to be doing a thing for him, though, his mind churning along ever faster, Cuddy's worry now in the juggling round along with Blythe, Thornton, and John.

_We're partners now, so stop acting like you're still alone._

Her words from Tuesday night suddenly came back to him, and he stopped. Even though he had only made it one block, he was breathing hard. He stood there for a minute, then slowly turned around, limping back. He was much more aware of his leg now, but the way back home wasn't as long as he had feared. She was in the living room, obviously pacing a track around the house herself, and she came to a halt as he entered. "I'm sorry," he said.

She came to him quickly, burying herself against him as they kissed. "_I'm_ sorry," she added when they broke apart a moment later, and their lips found each other again.

Together, they went over to the couch, collapsing into the cushions as if her legs as well as his were weak now. "I didn't mean to sound that sharp about your leg," she said. "I was worried in general and translated it all into physical terms; I'm trying to get better about that. You're not a cripple to me, Greg."

He nodded. "I was heading out to think about things alone. Didn't work, though. The thoughts went with me, and leaving you back here wasn't an improvement." He sighed. "I guess we can talk about it." His voice was tentative, though, already backing away full speed.

"Not until you're ready to," she said. "I apologize for pushing. I know that - that whatever you talked about with Jensen was a lot, and talking to Blythe only made it worse. I just thought it might help to talk, but I really think you might need a break from it for a while even more. It doesn't need to be tonight, Greg." He relaxed in relief, and she knew that he really _didn't_ feel up to talking tonight. It wasn't just that he didn't want to; he really did need some more time working through things before voicing them. "I can wait," she assured him. "Just remember that I'm _here_."

"I do know that. I'm not leaving."

They wound up watching a movie, curled together in a heap on the couch with Belle, not talking, not thinking about things, just being together, but for the first time all day, the swirling tornado of thought stilled, and House for the moment let it go, content just to be with his family.


	27. Chapter 27

Sunday was another family day, though a completely different one. House's leg was still hurting more than baseline after everything on Saturday, and to his annoyance, the girls noticed, even Rachel. He was still working on the concept that his disability wasn't a failing in their eyes, and of course, added pain made it harder to be objective about it on the bad days. The family stayed at home that day, and House gave the girls a piano lesson instead, one at a time, while Cuddy played in the back yard with the other daughter. Rachel still wanted piano lessons like her sister, but the frustration with lack of progress was less than before; House's strategy of showing her other areas to emulate him had worked. At least the frustration was lessened for _Rachel_. For House himself, he was starting to find his sarcastic edge occasionally longing to creep into his instructions, musical ability in a tug-of-war with fatherly tolerance. Thus far, he had successfully avoided it. Still, he hated seeing any pupil of his do badly in _anything_.

After lunch, when the girls were down for their nap, he fished his laptop out of the desk and logged on. Cuddy, who had stopped in the bathroom, came in a few minutes later to find him deeply focused, one hand hunt-and-pecking at amazingly near the speed of normal typing, the other resting lightly on his thigh. "Do you need some more Flexeril, Greg?" she asked.

He tightened up and immediately switched to two-handed typing. "I'm fine."

She forced herself not to comment, instead just going back to the bedroom to get a pill. The fact that he had agreed to supplemental meds this morning in the first place was enough proof what he felt like today, as if she had needed any other than her own eyes. He was still so absurdly touchy at times, though. She came back down the hall, went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and returned a minute later to sit down next to him, silently offering the pill and water. His hands stilled on the keyboard, a suspended moment of debate while he didn't look at her. Then he reached out in silent surrender, taking the Flexeril with a token half swig of water. He didn't mention anything else related to his leg, and she carefully avoided it herself, although she rested her hands gently on his thigh, making herself a human heating pad. "What are you doing?"

"Using the laptop," he replied immediately, getting distance from the touchy subject of his leg in sarcasm. "I'm surprised you haven't seen me do it yet over the years."

"Very funny. What specifically are you laptopping? You had your differential expression on."

"You could be wrong, you know. I could be checking the baseball scores." He was deliberately stringing her along, waiting to see if he could get her to look directly at the screen herself.

"Yeah, right. It won't work, Greg. Tell me or not, but I'm not spying on you."

"No, you're just interrogating me." His tone was light, though. He didn't really mind this at the moment, not like last night when he had bolted away so fiercely from any discussion of the call with Blythe. Cuddy sat there studying his face as he typed, still refusing to look at the screen. She never tired of watching him in all his moods. The lighting-swift genius, the loving husband, the rebel, the sensitive musician. He tightened up abruptly, his whole being focused, target in sight. "Ah _ha_." He smiled, hit a few more keys, then looked at her, waiting. She didn't ask. Finally yielding, he said, "I'm trying to find my grandfather."

"Your grandfather?"

"Thornton's dad. He told Jensen the other night that he was a concert pianist."

She was immediately interested. "_That_ would explain a lot. I always wondered how any skill like that could come through Blythe."

He turned the angle of the laptop screen a little, opening his body language and inviting her in. "There can't be too many concert pianists from that era named Thornton. Check this out. Timothy Thornton." She studied the biographical page he had found, her eyes drawn instantly to the picture in the top left. The face shot was in black and white and obviously from decades-old technology, but the resemblance even so was unmistakable, actually a lot stronger than the one between House and Thornton himself. Thornton had only looked oddly familiar when he first approached Tuesday night, but even Cuddy, as well as she knew her husband, had not immediately connected them.

"That's got to be it, Greg. You have his face." Mostly, anyway. Minus the lines of pain.

They read the bio sketch together. Timothy Thornton, performer bursting on the scene in late teens out of nowhere, various accolades, successful career, cut short tragically in a plane accident that had killed him and his wife in 1947. The article mentioned that he had left two sons and a daughter but no more about them; the musical details of the father were the subject of this article. Cuddy shook her head. "He was only 35 when he died. When did Thornton join the Marines?"

"He and John met in boot camp; 1955." House stared at the screen, lost in thought. If Thornton had been 18 when he entered boot camp, couldn't have been younger or much older, then he had been 11 when he lost both parents. House felt a stab of sympathy in spite of himself for that abruptly orphaned boy.

Cuddy was pursuing similar lines mentally. "He had to just be a kid, Greg. I wonder who raised him, if he had relatives or if he went to an orphanage. Do you suppose the siblings at least got to stay together?"

House shook off the unexpected sense of identification. "I wonder if there are any recordings out there. Technology wasn't as good, but we still have recordings from the 1940s and earlier. Hell, we even have all sorts of recordings of Caruso, and he died in 1921. Course, that's because he was one of the first ones smart enough to realize how much he could earn marketing his records." He entered another search, navigating away from the page to get that picture off the screen. He didn't _want_ to identify with Thornton. He sat back, his hands resting on the keyboard instead of active, and changed the subject. "I think from now on we should give Abby a piano lesson second. Rachel won't mind always being first, and I'll explain to Abby somehow."

"What happened?" Cuddy asked.

He looked away. "I was actually getting _annoyed_ a few times today. With my own daughter. I think having Abby first is too much of a . . . letdown then for Rachel's. The contrast in that order is too distinct." He looked back at her quickly, his eyes challenging. "How screwed up is _that_? I was fighting once or twice to keep from being impatient with her."

"I think it makes perfect sense, actually. You're a musical genius, Greg. To see her keep failing to retain even simple things has to get hard on you after a while."

"But she's _two and a half_. Furthermore, she's my daughter!"

"You think parents aren't supposed to ever get impatient with their kids? News flash, Greg, _everybody_ does. I have. So what?"

He looked away again quickly, and she suddenly completed the thought. "Greg." All the joking of a moment ago had vanished from her tone. "That doesn't make you a bad father, Greg. It isn't step one on the road to abuse. It's _okay_ to feel impatient with the girls sometimes; that's just human. And even so, I'm sure you didn't snap at her, not about this."

"But I _wanted_ to a few times."

"And you appropriately controlled that, because she is two and a half, like you said. But that's not a failing to feel it, Greg. Nobody's kids are perfect, ours included." He gave a weak smile, which faded a moment later. She waited.

"I was . . . this is _stupid._"

"It's not stupid, Greg. It's just feelings. That's all right; it's not wrong to have them."

"I'm _disappointed _in her sometimes." His tone was full of disgust, at himself, not Rachel.

"No, you aren't," she disagreed. He looked back at her, challenging. "You're disappointed that she has no musical talent. That's not the same as being disappointed in her as a person. Listen, Greg, I grew up thinking my parents were disappointed in me a lot of times, that I had to always measure up or lose their love and respect. They had trouble conveying unconditional love - and so do I. I'm just starting to work through all that with Patterson. But Greg, _you _do not. You convey unconditional love _beautifully_. Both of our daughters have no doubt about the fact that you love them. That isn't going to change because you're impatient for a moment here and there sometimes."

He was reassured even as he objected. "But a father shouldn't be . . ."

Cuddy got up, cutting the conversation off. "We need to look at some more pictures, I think." She retrieved her camera, pulling up the pictures from the zoo yesterday. He couldn't help smiling as she scrolled through the chronicle of the day, seeing his girls. The shots from the petting zoo _were_ good, but several of the others were revealing, too. Cuddy had a nice eye for expression in setting up shots, getting pictures not just of the animals but of the _family_ watching the animals. She finally stopped at the last one. "Look at this, Greg. This is right after we had told them that was enough for the day."

"Because of my leg," he grumbled. Not that they had outright said it, but even the girls had understood that much, evident by the minimum of protesting.

"_Look_ at them, Greg. Yes, they were disappointed; they didn't want to leave. In fact, Rachel probably wouldn't mind living there full time. But look at this picture of you with them. Disappointment is a momentary feeling. The _love_ isn't a feeling, and they knew it was still there, and they still had it for you, too." He looked at him standing in front of the exhibit (leaning more on his cane, he noted), Abby holding his left hand, Rachel on his bad side, her hand reaching up to grasp one finger on the cane possessively. Cuddy had caught the three faces perfectly, all looking at the animals. "Even now, they weren't disappointed in _you_. They were just disappointed. You aren't disappointed in Rachel; you're just disappointed. She knows you still love her. But I do agree it might be easier to put Abby last for now. I really think before too long, Rachel's going to lose the desire for lessons at all and just drift full time into running."

He couldn't help relaxing a little at the thought, and right then, his cell phone rang. He pulled it out, looked at caller ID, and she saw his face tighten up. "Hello, Lucas."

"House. I've got your background check."

"Hopefully not _mine_. If so, you aren't getting paid." Part of it was the standard sarcasm, merely seeing an opening and unable to resist taking it, but he also still wanted to distance himself from all this.

Lucas ignored the comment. "You said you wanted something by the end of the weekend. Should I bring it by the house? Want to meet me somewhere?"

He looked over at Cuddy. She would worry about him going out somewhere alone to meet Lucas, knowing what he was going to do, and yet she couldn't come with him as somebody had to stay with the girls. She was already tensing up now, waiting for whatever he decided. "Bring it on by the house," he said.

"Now? I'm about ten minutes away."

_Now_. So immediate, such a difference between _by the end of the weekend_ and _now_. Annoyed at his own cowardice, he said quickly, "Now is good. The girls are taking a nap. Bring it on."

"Okay. See you in a few." The line went dead.

House hit end and replaced the phone in his pocket with too much care, postponing looking at Cuddy. "Lucas," he said finally. Of course, she knew that. He had greeted him by name, after all.

"If you want to go through the report alone, Greg, that's okay. I understand."

"No, you might as well see it, too." He felt her relax beside him. She was trying so hard not to push, but he knew she worried more when left out of things.

She moved one of her hands from his thigh to his right arm. "Thank you, Greg. I know it's a lot to work through and talk about, but talking _does_ help to process things. I think it would help you to talk about it."

Something in her tone clearly reset the reference to last night, the assumption all but written in bold type across the computer screen, and he tensed up sharply enough that his leg protested. She returned her hand to it, massaging lightly. "I'm, um, not ready to talk about what came up with Mom last night. That's too much. Jensen always said when things are really getting to be too much at once, divide it into smaller pieces and take them one at a time, so I'm even taking his advice. I can't talk about that part yet."

She was careful to keep her voice neutral, but she didn't see how on earth they could look through a background report on Thornton without approaching his feelings about the man. "But Jensen also brought this up Friday in your session. He thinks himself that you need to start dealing with this."

He froze, looking at her sharply. "And just _how_ do you know what I talked about in that session with Jensen? He left right after. He didn't actually talk to you in depth first, did he?" But _when_? The psychiatrist had had no opportunity.

She saw her mistake instantly. "I don't. I was only guessing. No, Jensen didn't have your session in advance with me, Greg. He respects your privacy. He's never given me specific details at all."

"So tell me, Lisa, what did you guess?" There was a cold edge underneath his voice.

She sighed. "I didn't mean . . . Patterson had a theory, that's all. I assumed she was right. I don't know that she was, and I don't know that's what you talked about with Jensen or with your mother. I was only jumping to a conclusion, and I shouldn't have. I apologize, okay?"

"What did _Patterson_ guess?" He knew that she talked about him in sessions, as he talked about her; they had mutually agreed that that was fair. But he was very tense right now, even defensive.

Cuddy could have stood on confidentiality of her own sessions, but she knew that would be a mistake. She was the one who had put this on the table a minute ago; she couldn't snatch it back off. She should have kept her mouth shut. Patterson had warned her to leave this to Jensen. "I said a few nights ago, it was right after we talked to him in the park, that I, um, just thought it was odd that you were so mad at Thornton but not mad at all at your mother for your childhood. And she said that her theory would be that you, well, that you actually _were_ mad at your mother, but you couldn't let yourself admit it because of how your father threatened her to you, how he programmed that into you, so you transferred all of the anger at her onto Thornton instead."

He was silent for a good minute, but she could feel that his breathing was faster. "I shouldn't have said anything, Greg. I apologize."

"How long did she have to think about it?" he demanded.

"How long - you mean between me asking her and her theory?"

"Yes, damn it. How long did it take her to come up with it?"

She rewound mentally. "Maybe a minute or so."

He stared at the laptop, not even seeing the Google search there. A minute or so. A total stranger, albeit a professional, someone who had met him _once_, had come up with the same hypothesis as Jensen from the data in only a minute or so.

Cuddy touched his hand tentatively. "We don't have to talk about it, Greg. I shouldn't have pushed you. It's okay if you aren't ready to deal with that yet; I should have listened to you."

He was still locked onto the screen, and his voice was barely audible now. "What I was talking about putting off, what she said in the phone call last night, has _nothing_ to do with how I feel or don't feel about either Thornton or Mom. It was new."

She stared. "_Nothing_? You mean that something _else_ . . ."

He nodded. "This is _not_ something out of Jensen's session Friday. I've _never_ talked about it with him. As if everything else with Thornton weren't enough, she had to . . . it's all just too _much_, damn it!" His voice was rising toward the end, and she could feel his taut body starting to tremble slightly.

Cuddy fought down her own fury that Blythe had apparently managed, with her typical horrible timing, to spring an additional unrelated bombshell on him right now. She put an arm around House, wishing she could erase the whole last five minutes and keep her big trap shut this time. _Lisa,_ she lectured herself firmly, _when your own psychiatrist tells you so leave a topic alone and not try to probe it as an amateur, _listen _to her!_ "It's okay, Greg." She pulled him over against her. "I apologize. I was still trying to push you, and I was jumping to conclusions, too. Wrong conclusions. I shouldn't have brought it up."

He leaned into her, still tense, trying to control his breathing. "I _can't_. Not yet."

"I know. It's okay, Greg." They were silent for a few minutes, slowly backing away from the edge, needing the physical connection more than words right then. Finally, Cuddy heard the car door of Lucas' car outside, and she leaned over to kiss her husband. "I'm sorry, Greg. You have my permission to slam the conversational door smack in my face next time I don't take your word that a subject is off limits."

He grinned, the humor kicking in as she had intended. "Really?"

She stood up and gave his hand a final squeeze before letting go and heading for the door to let Lucas in. "At least sometimes. Does not apply at work. Or necessarily with the girls. Or . . ."

He laughed, even if it was still a tense laugh, and she relaxed a little more herself, although the guilt index was still up. Feeling like she had just had an intense workout to match her longest yoga sessions, she opened the door and let Lucas in.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Note to other authors and to readers. I discovered in going back just to verify something and then in reading a few more early chapters as a survey once I noticed the issue that fanfiction dot net is apparently in one of its "delete a certain punctuation/formatting" modes. The current candidate for execution seems to be the dash, not when used as a hyphen but appropriately as a dash to insert a thought in the middle of a sentence. They show up fine on document manager edit when I exported two chapters to check, but they are simply deleted in the chapter page itself online. Fanfiction does suddenly take notions like this sometimes, where something can look perfectly fine on a fanfiction page for weeks or months, then abruptly be changed.

The one that still annoys me is that they suddenly one night decided to delete all of my scene breaks for the entire series up through partway through Onslaught. I realized this toward the end of that story, and that's when I switched to (H/C) instead of my former scene break. H/C does seem to be working at the moment. But every break prior to that, and they definitely _were_ there originally, has vanished. I do intend to eventually return through the series and reinsert new scene breaks, but that's a massive job, as you have to export, edit, and then replace every single chapter through document manager. I haven't ever had time. Anyhow, just a word of caution to fellow authors that FF net is pulling another "format item of the month that we will randomly remove a few weeks later" stunt. Also just a note to readers that while typos definitely can occur, if you are reading an older story or chapter and it looks odd in format in places, consider the possibility that the site screwed around with it later, not that the author set it up and published it that way.

By the way, for those who don't know, Fanfiction also always removes links. I've had that one come up in PMs sometimes. There will simply be a blank there. If you want to refer to a link or a website in either a story you write or in a message to somebody, phrase it as www dot wherever dot com. You have to trick the site and not let it know that's an address. Otherwise, the reader will not be able to see what you said.

On to the background check!

(H/C)

Lucas entered the house. "Hi, Cuddy. House." He was holding a large manila envelope, and his usual deceptively boyish expression was serious.

"That had better be full of a lot of good facts," House stated.

"Facts anyway. Such as they are. You'll have to decide on good yourself." Cuddy had sat back down next to her husband, and Lucas joined them on the other side where they would all be able to see the paperwork. "I called in two people I know, given the short deadline. One in St. Louis, one in Ohio."

"Ohio?" Cuddy asked.

"Thornton was born and raised in Ohio. Smallish town not too far from Cleveland. So we've had a triple investigation going the last couple of days."

"With a triple bill, of course," House noted.

Lucas gave him an innocent grin, but the serious edge was still under it. "You didn't set a limit. Besides, I figured you wouldn't mind."

"You know who he is," House said softly. It wasn't a question. Lucas' expression gave him away.

"I've got a guess. But I don't _know_." To House's relief, he left it at that and opened the envelope. "Okay, we've got full reports in here for you to read, but here's the Cliff's notes version. Thomas Thornton. Born in Ohio, father was a musician, mother stayed at home. One brother, one sister; he's the youngest. It was a smallish town, like I said, and there are still some older people around who remember the family and people who went to school with the kids. My source there phrased this as a research project on the musician father, since it turns out he was really good. Known but not widely known and mostly forgotten by the world in general at this point. That made a great cover story; somebody into music researching this figure from the past. Nobody minded talking to him at all and sharing the old memories, and he was careful not to focus too much on the boy."

"Yeah, yeah, I get the idea," House said, but he was hanging on every word.

"Folks remember them, like I said. Everybody liked the mother."

"So everybody didn't like the father?"

Lucas grinned. "Oh, they _liked_ him, but he also had a practical joker streak. Apparently, he was dead serious about music but playful on most other things. The mother was described by everybody as 'sweet.' Not one person called the father sweet. Anyway, the father traveled for concerts and all, but he was back as much as he could be, too. Nice family, well liked around town, had plenty of friends. Thornton especially liked horses, and he had one that his father gave him for his tenth birthday. Nobody remembered any problems with the family or Thornton up until the parents were killed. Both of them died in 1947 in a plane accident. Several people mentioned how tragic that was to have both involved, because the thing is, the mother hardly ever traveled with him when he was going somewhere flying distance. She did that time because it was going to be the biggest concert he'd done to date. I guess she wanted to hear it."

"But not the kids," House put in.

"The kids were in school. They probably would have gone, too, if it had been summer. They stayed home with a neighbor keeping an eye on them."

Cuddy noted that. "A _neighbor?_ No other relatives in town?"

"They had an uncle and aunt in Cleveland, and I'll get to them. But the parents weren't natives, and nobody in town was related to them. They had just picked it out as a nice place to set up a base and raise kids, within an hour and a half of a city but not too close to cash in on big city problems. Anyway, mother and father killed on the way to the performance. The kids were 15, 13, and 11, and they were sent to Cleveland to live with the aunt and uncle."

"Switch investigation to Cleveland, and there, Thornton started getting into trouble. Nothing criminal level, but he'd never had any problems at all reported in school when his parents were alive. Junior high and high school, that changed. My source found two old retired teachers who had been in the school system for decades including those years, and they remembered him clearly. Again, the questions were presented as part of a story on the father, kind of a how his tragic death impacted the family he left behind angle. Both of those teachers described Thornton in almost the same way. He was quite smart, and he was mad at the world in general and didn't apply himself. Frustrating student, one of them said. They both thought he really had a lot of potential, but he sure didn't make himself popular with the school authorities. The uncle and aunt are long dead. So are both of the other kids. We did find the uncle's daughter." Cuddy came to attention. She had been under the impression that Thornton had no relatives at all left alive. He just seemed _alone_ somehow.

"She didn't really want to talk about her pianist relative except to point out how inconvenient it was for him and his wife to get killed like that. All of her focus was about suddenly having three automatic teenage siblings, three more mouths to feed, three more people in a not-too-large house. She had to share a bedroom with the girl, and the boys went into a room they made out of part of the attic. Her whole attitude was that they were in the way and were brought there out of a sense of duty, not that her parents really wanted them. Not sure if the parents actually said that to the kids, but she definitely felt that herself. She said Thomas in particular was a troublemaker, and he and her uncle were at odds frequently. The uncle tried to bring him into line, nothing that sounded overboard there on methods, but the boy didn't like it. The older son left to join the Marines as soon as he turned 18, and he was killed in Korea. Thomas himself left the minute he could, too, and he joined the Marines like his brother had, although he was a little too late for Korea."

Lucas paused, mentally closing chapter one and giving House a chance to absorb it. "I'll pay the bill for the one from Ohio," House said after a minute. "Not bad for just a few days."

"What about the horse?" Cuddy wondered. "Did he get to take the horse with him to Cleveland?"

"No. His uncle insisted there wasn't any place for a horse in the city, and it was sold. People in the little town remembered _that_, too. They made sure the horse got a good home, but it annoyed them."

Cuddy shook her head. "That was a _birthday present_ from his dead father."

"Cue the violins," House grumbled. "Life sucks sometimes; he would have discovered that sooner or later anyway. He ought to be glad he managed to make it up to 11 first." He was fighting his own stirrings of sympathy. "Get on with it, Lucas. So he joined the Marines."

"He joined in 1955, and he stayed in for his twenty."

"A good old soldier," House interrupted. "Should have known. Let me guess: He starred in Vietnam, since he failed to make Korea, and covered himself with glory and awards. He's probably got the Congressional Medal of Honor as well as personal citations from every commander he ever served under plus testimonials from little old ladies he's helped across the street. Just an all-American hero."

"Not quite," Lucas said, ignoring the fact that the tension in the room, which had been apparent anyway, ramped up sharply as the topic turned to Thornton's service. "You're on my dime now, by the way; I did the military stuff. Don't ask how I found out some of this data, though. It involved breaking into some sites. No Congressional Medal of Honor, although he's got several awards, and there are personal citations from commanders. Nothing from little old ladies. And he wasn't _technically_ in Vietnam."

"How are you _technically_ not in Vietnam? Those are lines on a map, unless he was part of that secret Cambodia stuff. Either he was there or he wasn't."

"He wasn't on the front lines, and he wasn't in combat. They had better places to use him. Turns out, what school missed but the Marines learned in his first few assignments is that Thornton is a genius at languages. He would pick them up effortlessly, and he's very analytical, too. They wound up using him in the Nam era as well as other years in intelligence, things like decoding enemy communications, writing fake ones himself. They also liked to plant him in major cities that were officially neutral but had some reputation for being friendly to the enemy and have him see what he could pick up just listening and rooting around. He apparently can speak _anything_ like a native. Not that he looks like a native in some regions, but he can act, can think on his feet and adapt a plan on the fly if needed, and having somebody in the background in a city who understands you when you don't realize they do can yield dividends. He was a very good source of information for the military. Most of the work he did in the Corps, especially in the second decade, including Vietnam, was _out_ of uniform."

House was derailed from his automatic military rant by interest. "No advertising the total of people he killed?" John had kept score, like notches on a gun.

"I can't guarantee he _didn't_ kill somebody. This is just from records and reports later. But he didn't mention any occasion, nor did his commanders. In fact, he seemed to like to think his way out of tight spots instead of using violence, although he was of course trained in hand-to-hand and everything else, and if things did drop into a bar fight, which happened a few times, he could hold his own. But he's a long way from Rambo, House."

House looked at the far wall, trying to wrap his head around a career Marine who preferred to think out of situations instead of going for force. He would have had an easier time believing in UFOs. After a few moments, he looked back over. "So what else?"

"One thing I thought was interesting is that he never was in trouble in the Marines. Not one recorded demerit. Especially putting that back to back with his high school, where he all but had a standing appointment in the principal's office, it's interesting. Apparently, that life gave him stability and control back."

"It does for some people," Cuddy tossed in. "The consistent discipline of it steadies them."

"He was married while he was in the Marines. Had one son, born in 1962. After he got out of the Corps, he moved to the outskirts of St. Louis, not in the city but quite near it, and set up a base. He's been there since."

"And bought a horse, probably," House suggested, but that guess didn't carry quite as much underlying hostility, just a theory that made sense.

"Yes," Lucas confirmed. "Got himself one as well as his son. He took a job with a company in St. Louis as a translator. Worked out his twenty there, too, retired in 1996. His son was killed in 1996 in a car accident just after he retired. Switching to my source in St. Louis, it was a little harder to ask questions there, although we were still trying to use the front of a story on his father. From all information there, he was an excellent employee but could get impatient once in a while with people not quite as quick on the uptake. But in general, no problems. People who knew him admired and respected him, and everybody loved his wife. She was diagnosed with cancer in the beginning of 2008, died in 2010. Thornton pretty much became obsessed during her illness, absolutely determined at first to beat this and then to take care of her completely himself all the way to the end. After she died, he said he was going traveling to clear his head, leased his current horse to a friend, and took off the day after the funeral. Nobody had seen him since until about two weeks ago, when he showed back up and immediately left again."

Lucas flipped over a few pages. "According to public records, he's had one speeding ticket in the last five years, paid it without challenge. No trouble I could find since high school. I did pop over to the Ramada for a look at him and some subtle questions there. He has a reputation for being very quiet and a good tipper. The one other interesting thing I tripped across was from Thursday night. He followed the defense attorney home."

House immediately came to attention. "What did he do to him?"

"Nothing," Lucas continued.

House looked away again. "Of course. Stevenson was in court and fine Friday morning. Thornton probably thought of volunteering to testify or something after that came up with Stevenson's questions on cross, but he chickened out on the way, I guess. Naturally. Too much inconvenience for him."

Lucas hesitated and didn't point out that House had just confirmed Thornton's identity. Having spent the last few days researching Thornton's life, the PI couldn't imagine the man chickening out on anything. "I don't know what he was doing, House. I didn't stay too long, because once he was just waiting outside Stevenson's instead of focused on following him, he started to wonder if somebody might be watching _him_. I could tell. Didn't want him to spot me or want to keep setting his radar off, so I left. It's just one more piece of data, whatever it's worth to you. Anyway, that's Thornton, best I can do in a few days. He's a long way from Patrick."

Just then, Rachel was heard calling back in the nursery. Cuddy stood up and left, and House quickly stuffed all of the report back in the manila envelope. "We need to wrap it up. Don't want to explain you to the girls." Lucas handed over a separate sheet, the bill, and House wrote a check without any comment on the total. "Here and thanks. Now scram."

The PI nodded. "See you in court tomorrow, House." He left, and House tucked the papers in the desk and carefully pasted on a carefree smile for his family, trying to discard the tension of the last hour and a half. This was just any old family night with his girls.

"Dada!" Rachel came running, of course, down the hall ahead of Cuddy and Abby, and House scooped her up.

"Hi, Rachel. What say we watch a movie?"

"Yay!" She gave him a hug, squirmed her way back down, and headed for the DVDs, and House picked up Abby and returned to the couch. He tried to focus on the movie, but against his best efforts, his mind kept returning to the new data throughout the whole evening, chewing on it, examining it, debating. As Jensen had predicted, more data didn't solve anything after all, just gave him more to think about.


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: Good news for Pranks fans; there is another long story following the long story that follows the one shot that's up next. My muse just offered me the seed of it yesterday. However, there is a LOT left to do even on the first long story, and the second one is just an idea beginning to form at this stage. I'm pretty sure you will have a gap in between the one shot that follows Verdict and the story after that. My muse's timetable is out of my control, much like her ideas. But it looks like the series will, at the moment anyway, keep going on for the foreseeable future, even if with occasional gaps here and there while under construction. Verdict is winding down, but we still have a few.

Thanks for reading, and thanks doubly to those who review afterward. Enjoy 29.

My current favorite online recording of the Grieg can be found on You Tube under Grieg Piano Concerto Olafsson Ashkenazy, neat recent concert from Iceland with a young but brilliant pianist. The 1st movement is the really famous one. And more details from the past will be filled in gradually and over a few stories, so be patient. :)

(H/C)

House returned to the report after the girls were in bed, and Cuddy found him sitting on the couch, reading glasses perched on his nose, poring over the pages. She sat down next to him, lecturing herself firmly this time. _Be there but do NOT push. And don't make assumptions, either_. Patterson had warned that this topic got into very deep water. House acknowledged her with a grunt but didn't look up. After a moment, she scooted over more closely, reading the pages herself. He held them out a little better for access. Of course, his reading speed was about twice hers, and he flipped to the next page immediately as soon as he finished one, so Cuddy still wasn't getting the full details. What she saw, though, was an expanded version of Lucas' briefing, more fleshed out but not new.

House hit the end and stopped, for the first time letting her finish a page. Not that he was thinking about that; he was just thinking. The pages slowly, as if of their own accord, yielded to gravity and sank to rest in his lap instead of held up in his hands. Cuddy snuggled in a little closer.

"So he was a good little Marine," House said finally, breaking the long silence. The disgust in his tone was obvious.

"An interesting one, at least," Cuddy said. "So he's good at languages."

"Yeah, I know. And my grandfather pulled everybody's leg when he wasn't playing the piano. I'm _so_ much like them; we all need to have a family reunion and share old stories. Wait a minute; we _can't_ all have a reunion, because most of us are dead, and the rest of us aren't interested. Too bad."

She was careful not to react to the ire in his voice. He wasn't really trying to pick a fight with her specifically; he was just looking for something to distract him from the emotional whirlwind. She had a few suggestions for that, but she couldn't be too obvious or abrupt with them. Trying to pull him away by force from this bone his mind was gnawing would just set him off more. "I was actually thinking about Abby, Greg."

He softened a little, smiling at the thought of his daughter. "You think she's good at languages?"

"I don't know. She's been kind of slow to talk, but she had such a bad start. That's not diagnostic of anything. But I wondered how many of these same traits we'll be able to see a few years down the road."

"She's sure got the music." He looked at the piano, then sighed. "We are going to have to be _careful_ with Rachel."

"Yes. And keep working on the idea that people are good at different things, plus that unconditional love we were talking about earlier. I always thought I had to be good at things to be loved growing up."

His restless mind went back immediately to the subject of his childhood - and Thornton. "I thought there wasn't _anything_ I could do to be loved, so it didn't matter what the hell I did. But I _was_ where I belonged, after all. At least according to _him_."

"He didn't know, Greg."

"He _should_ have." And what about Blythe? He stared down at the pages again. He realized now that he hadn't just wanted data; he had hoped that Lucas would turn up a few fatal flaws, things where _anybody_ would agree that this person didn't need to be in his granddaughters' lives. He'd wanted an easy, logical, _negative_ decision, evidence that proved it beyond all reasonable doubt. He turned back to Cuddy suddenly, challenging. "You think I ought to talk to him, don't you?"

She didn't take the bait. "That's your decision, Greg. I can't imagine what it was like for you just looking at things from the outside. _Whatever_ you decide, I'll support you in it."

"What _do _you think of him?"

That was actually a question, not a challenge, even if it was still said a little sharply. She heard the masked difference. "I think he's a good man who made mistakes that he really regrets now. I also think he's been very lonely since his wife died."

House rolled his eyes. "Well join the club of the world. _Everybody's_ lonely." He jerked to a verbal stop on the end of that statement as it abruptly hit him again that he _wasn't_. Not any longer. The pure shining wonder of his newfound happiness as always caught him off guard.

Cuddy tightened up her arm around his shoulders. "Not everybody, Greg. I'm not, either. Not now. I was for a long time, even though I didn't admit it, and work is a lousy substitute for people." She kissed him. "Thank you for becoming part of a family with me."

He returned the kiss, and the pages of the report slid to the floor. She felt him tense up suddenly, though. His leg simply wasn't up to couch calisthenics today. She broke off instantly, and he looked away. "Sorry."

She kissed him again. "Greg, you have _nothing_ to be sorry for. But why don't we adjourn this conversation to the hot tub?"

He grinned as she began obsessively to pick up the papers. "You really want to _talk_ in the hot tub?"

"Unless we manage to find something better to do." Her eyes gave a few silent suggestions, and his smile widened. She put the papers back into the envelope and tucked it in the desk, then came back and held out a hand to him. "Come on, Greg."

He accepted the help and stood up, but he couldn't resist one more question as they headed down the hall. "Would _you_ be comfortable letting him keep our daughters while we went out somewhere? No doubts at all?"

"I don't know. Definitely not without more interaction and chance to study him. We really don't know him yet, Greg."

That was honest, at least. All of Lucas' report still didn't replace personal experience - or personal decision. Trying to stuff that mental compartment into the desk for the night along with the paperwork, he entered the bathroom and turned on the hot tub.

(H/C)

Thomas Thornton entered the hotel room and set down his shopping bag. A couple of things purchased in Philadelphia today completed his plans, and he was ready for Stevenson, first night after the verdict was announced. This was going to be riding a very fine line. He could not actually break the law, which might backfire and bring Greg into it, but he had to let the other man think that he might, and he had to do it purely through implication and unspoken subtext. The mental challenge was appealing, even though he regretted the circumstances.

No, the circumstances he regretted were decades ago, the ones that had handed Stevenson the opportunity to belittle his son for the father's errors. Still, Stevenson was not going to get away with it. He had wanted to hear from Thornton, he said. Well, he was going to get his wish.

Thomas logged onto his laptop, checking email (nothing from Greg), then with a sigh headed into the bathroom and switched on the tub, running a hot bath for himself. It was _John_ he'd actually like to have a few minutes with, and he wouldn't let something like legality stop him there. Nope, he would kill the bastard with his bare hands. All those years, John no doubt had been laughing sadistically to himself as he punished Blythe and Thomas for their sin by trying to shatter their son. The fact that neither of them ever suspected anything had to have given him far more satisfaction and revenge value than a simple confrontation would have. No, everyone thought he was a good husband and father, just as he intended them to think. He had worked on keeping up the appearance in front of everyone except Greg alone. Thomas cringed, realizing again as he had often the last two weeks that his decision to stay anonymous, made in an effort to give Greg a happy, stable, _family_ home, had done exactly the opposite.

The tub was full, and Thomas undressed, going over his body analytically in a way that he normally didn't spend time doing. He wasn't what he had been at 30, but at 74, he was still quite fit, muscles still toned, his posture still straight. He had never been very bulky, but the height could be used to advantage. The Marine was still visible when he wanted him to be. Yes, even at his age, he thought that he could scare the living daylights out of a coward like Stevenson under the right circumstances. But not too far; the mind, not the body, always in control.

Finally, deciding he needed a break for tonight from the mingled preparation and regrets, needed something else to hitch his mind to, he went back into the main hotel room and retrieved the laptop. Setting it up on the sink, he cued up a recording and then got into the tub, letting the hot water soak into him as the music started. Grieg's Piano Concerto. This was one of only three extant recordings of his father in concert, and Thomas had long since had them transferred to digital and multiple copies made. One set was in a safety deposit box at the bank. No computer theft, home fire, or other individual disaster could take them beyond his reach.

The music soared through the bathroom, the agitation, the dissonances resolving to harmonies, the restlessness hand-in-hand with moments of pure beauty that formed the essence of life. He remembered watching his father play, spellbound at the other-worldly magic of it. Not one of the three siblings had inherited the gift, although his brother could play moderately well, just not brilliantly. Still, it hadn't mattered. They were loved, and they knew it, their father still proud of them.

Then the plane crash had come. The house was sold, the piano his brother had wanted sold, his birthday horse sold, all of life sold, it seemed to Thomas. His uncle had told them proudly that he put the money into trust for them, untouchable until they were old enough, and in the meantime, he would invest it in more _responsible _areas, making clear by tone his opinion that music hadn't been a responsible area and that his father had failed to some extent to provide for his family. The same assumption became part of daily life, that they had been spoiled, allowed to drift in childhood without firm preparation for the future, and had never been directed toward steady, reliable areas of ambition like banking. In fact, their uncle's intervention in their upbringing, though not by choice, would actually better prepare them to be productive adults living _responsible_ lives. Thomas in reaction had set out to be as irresponsible as he could just to spite his uncle, succeeding fairly well at it. No abuse, nothing remotely like John's tactics, but there had been a world of tension, and one by one, all three of them left at first opportunity, himself of course last and thus getting the undiluted message of disapproval all to himself those last two years.

Thomas still remembered the pure relief of boot camp. He had joined the Marines without much thought, simply because his older brother, whom he had always looked up to, had joined and also because it provided the possibility for putting a lot of distance between himself and Cleveland. Dying in Korea as his brother had was preferable to stagnating in a respectable bank in a world where you weren't really wanted. No, there hadn't been any sense of national duty, just a desire to go somewhere, _anywhere_ else. But boot camp in the first week was a breath of fresh air. It made _sense_, the first thing since his parents' death that had made sense to him. It was hard, yes, but he relished the physical challenge, and even more, he relished the attached mental framework. No favoritism, no automatic disappointment for some no matter what you did. If the rules were strict, they still were for all the recruits without discrimination, and if Suck-It-Up Sam yelled at him, there was nothing personal about it; the others got that, too. There, the rules didn't change, he _could_ succeed if he wished, and he had the exact same chance at it everyone else did and even more natural physical ability than a lot of them.

His father's hands claimed the keyboard, running the entire length of it. Greg had his hands, just as he had his eyes and his face. His other son had strongly resembled the grandfather physically, too, and in humor, but he hadn't had the music. Thomas wished he could hear Greg playing someday. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the music and the memories.

_"It's a shame Greg couldn't join us tonight," Thomas said. They were at a restaurant, celebrating Blythe's birthday. Thomas had landed this morning and would leave again tomorrow, a whirlwind visit on his way to another assignment. _

_John straightened up even more. The other man even sat at attention. Thomas could look incredibly non military when he wished; in fact, the success of his increasingly interesting missions was founded on deceptive appearances. But the thought crystalized for him tonight that John would look like a Marine anywhere, in or out of uniform. "Grounded is grounded," John stated. "Greg is the one who chose to screw up, and he's paying the price for it. If he misses his mother's birthday dinner, that's nobody's fault but his own." _

_Blythe spoke up. "You could have given him a suspended sentence just for tonight."_

_John shook his head firmly. "Rules are rules. Start letting things slide, and soon he wouldn't care at all. But enough about him. How are things with you?" _

_"Doing great. My family is wonderful, and I enjoy my work." _

_"How old is your boy now?" John asked. "Never can remember his name." _

_"Tim," Thomas replied. "Timothy Thornton III. He's named after my older brother and my father. He's 6 now." _

_"Your brother was killed in Korea, right? Did your father ever serve?" _

_"No." John immediately shut off, considering further details irrelevant. No other accomplishment compared to the Marines in his eyes. He genuinely did have trouble remembering non military personal details from other people's backgrounds; to him, they simply weren't as interesting. Now, John changed the subject, turning to Blythe. _

_"Are you having a good birthday, Blythe?" _

_She smiled and took a bite. "It's very nice, dear. Going out is a nice treat, and I like the new dress. I just wish Greg could have . . ." _

_"Enough about Greg not being allowed to come." She obediently dropped the subject. "In fact, I need to go call Greg. I told him I would occasionally just to make sure he's home and didn't sneak out somewhere. Excuse me." John pushed his chair back and headed for the pay phone by the entrance. _

_Blythe sighed. "I do wish Greg was here." _

_"What did he do?" _

_"Mouthed off to John, and he was home late, too. John tries sometimes to put him already in the Marines, I think, but you know how much he loves him." _

_Thomas took a swallow of wine, then launched a subject he had been thinking about during the flight. Private moments of conversation were rare and must be seized. "Does Greg have any musical talent?" _

_"I don't know, Thomas. I know he can sing some." _

_"Has he ever shown any interest in the piano?" _

_"No. Not that he's had much opportunity; we don't have one. I've always wanted one, though, just to putter around with. It seems to make a home so much homier, somehow." She looked down at the new dress. "I had even dropped some hints as we approached my birthday. Of course, a piano is a lot of money." _

_"They have used ones, too. Ask somebody who gives lessons; she might have connections to where to pick one up secondhand. Back to Greg, I wish he could have a chance at some lessons. Just to see if any ability is there." _

_"John would never spend money on that, either." She sighed. "I actually do know someone who teaches; she's another wife on base. A really good friend. We can talk about things. She was just saying the other day that she wished she had more boys as students. They're mostly girls. Nothing wrong with that, but she's afraid some of the boys who would like to might be kept from it by expectations. Not that music is sissy, of course, but some parents think so." _

_"What's her name?" Blythe looked up, hearing the change in his voice and seeing the idea take hold behind his eyes. Something in her rambling had caught his attention. _

_"What is it, Thomas?" _

_"Blythe, do you trust this woman? Can she be discreet on things?" _

_"Yes, she's a good friend. She doesn't gossip. She's a lot smarter than I am, too. She reads mysteries, and she's always figured it out by the end. I never can get those. What is it?" _

_"Give me her name and address, and she will receive payment from an anonymous donor to give Greg lessons. Also enough for a good used piano. But John can't know about that. She won't know who's sending it herself, but John can't know anybody is. Just that she wants to try a male student, like you said, to see if they aren't as good as girls, so she'd like to give him a few lessons experimentally on her dime. And you two can make up some front story on the piano, tell John a really cut price, say she found one that's such a bargain, make up some circumstances. He'd like that idea, getting something for a price way under what it's worth, and you said he knows already you want one." _

_"Yes, he does. Okay, Thomas, we can try it. If you're sure you want to; lessons are one thing, but a piano would be a lot." _

_"I'd love the chance to actually do something. I promise, wherever you are living, I'll find someway to pay for lessons for Greg as long as he wants them. But one condition, Blythe. No pressure on Greg. If he decides he doesn't want this, or if there's no interest or talent at all there, that's okay. It's his choice. I'd just like for him to have the opportunity." _

_"All right, Thomas. I'll send you her address in a letter if I don't get a chance to slip it to you by tomorrow. And thank you." _

_John came back across the room. "He's home, thinking over his sins like he should be. What were you two talking about?" _

_Thomas gave him a disarming smile, no tension at all, and lied easily. "Birthdays and what people would really like to have if money weren't any object." _

_John turned curiously to Blythe. "And what did you say you wanted?" _

_Blythe started to mention the piano, but Thomas gave a subtle shake of the head while John was turned away from him. Not right then, not that outright and that definitely connected to him. This must be played delicately. John already knew she wanted a piano. "I want a happy family," she said. "And I've already got it." _

_John smiled, his chest puffing out with pride, and Thomas sat back. He had done what he could. At least if Greg _did_ have his grandfather's talent, he might have a chance to develop it. _


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: One, two, three, four chapters left on Verdict, counting this one. Unless my posting schedule gets totally chopped up by RL events, always possible, and I have to break one of them into smaller bits. Hopefully they won't disappoint. All issues are not tied up neatly and resolved by the end of this one, which would be totally unrealistic given the years and years of anger and misunderstanding here, but the main arc of the story DOES have a definite decision and conclusion. Pure "to be continued" or "tune in next week/season" dangling endings on stories or TV drive me nuts, as I think authors should use the writing and characters to make people want to keep reading/watching, not just wondering what the next 5 minutes of the jaggedly interrupted scene would have held. Cliffhangers in chapters, okay, but as a story end, no.

Anyhow, specifically about the piano plot twist, that doesn't really come back in until next story (next LONG drama story, I mean; the next story is the one-shot that is something entirely new and different, kind of a time-out), but I'm glad people like the idea. House has commented several times in Pranks that Blythe standing up to John and insisting on keeping the lessons going was the only thing she ever really challenged him on. Not that my muse had any idea of Thomas at the time I first wrote that many stories ago, at least to my knowledge, but it fits in very well. I'm glad people are liking him, too. He's 100% fictional, unlike Jensen, but I'm having fun getting to know him.

Enjoy 30 and thanks for reading.

(H/C)

Most of Monday morning in court was taken up with the closing arguments. House was less distracted than Friday, but his mind was still running on two tracks, weighing and debating evidence in the one case as he listened to the other. Stevenson sounded like he was trying to convince himself of his very specious argument that Patrick was not responsible for his actions due to mental illness. Martin was calm, cool, and definite. The case went to the jury at about 11:00 a.m., and most of the courtroom stood up and headed out, figuring on an early lunch. Martin turned around to face Cuddy, House, and Wilson.

"Can I buy you all lunch?"

Cuddy looked at the door through which the jury had disappeared. "I don't want to miss the verdict."

"Oh, we won't. Even if they come to a decision very quickly, which I think they will, they don't just march back in without notice. All of the principals in the case and the media will be notified that a verdict is in, and they give us time to get back to court. They would never announce a verdict until counsel is here and the defendant is retrieved from jail. But this is a great chance for an early lunch break."

House shrugged and stood up. "You like pizza?"

Martin grinned, suddenly looking younger and not as painfully professional in his court suit. "Does anybody _not_ like pizza?"

"Believe it or not, I've met a few. I'm still convinced that's a symptom of some underlying disease; it just hasn't been studied enough yet."

Wilson shook his head as he stood up. "I can just _imagine_ you choosing that as a topic next conference you speak at."

"Don't give him ideas," Cuddy warned.

They headed out for pizza, getting Cuddy a small cheese and veggie lover's while the men all split a large meat lover's combo. Martin had figured out by now that conversation over meals with House needed to be general, and they talked about their respective kids. The prosecutor had two himself. After the meal, Cuddy turned to her husband. "Do you want to wait it out at court or at the hospital? If they give Martin notice, we could get back here ourselves in time. Unless you'd rather stay."

House considered. "Let's wait it out in court," he said. "What if we went to the hospital, and a case came up?" She hadn't thought of that one. Of course, going home would only start a battle when they had to abruptly leave again on short notice, too. "Besides," House continued. "I brought something to pass the time." He pulled his Gameboy out of a pocket.

Cuddy sighed. "Greg, you _can't_ sit in court and play video games."

"Why not? Court's not in session right now; it's just like a waiting room. And now that I think of it, the judge every morning has only lectured people about cell phones. Never mentioned video games. So obviously, those don't bother him."

"Or it never occurred to him somebody might try it," Wilson suggested.

Martin was laughing. "I must admit, Dr. House, I'm glad I had the chance to meet you, even if I wish the circumstances were different. I doubt they'd throw you out over a video game while we wait, but do put it up before things get going again. I'm going to be doing paperwork in my office."

So they all returned to the courthouse. House resumed his front-row seat, stretched his leg out, and began playing, complete with electronic sound effects. Wilson next to him was irresistibly pulled into the game and gradually went from slightly embarrassed self-consciousness to suggestions on strategy and reactions to the game events. The crowd behind them ebbed and flowed, but people left them alone, although the curious and disbelieving eyes could be felt. Cuddy tried to remind herself that these weren't the images that would be shown on TV.

It was 2:00 p.m. when Martin walked briskly up the aisle. House looked up instantly, wrecking his electronic car without a second thought. "Jury's in," Martin said. "Verdict in twenty minutes."

House put the game away and looked around, suddenly visibly tense again. The media was returning eagerly to get set up in their back media corner. Ann Bellinger had been somewhere else, but she came back now, too, looking tense but resolute. She had a friend with her this time. As she climbed over them to be seated, House looked along the rest of the witness row, then at the second one behind them. "Where's Lucas?" The PI had been there that morning during closing arguments.

Wilson looked around himself, then shrugged. "Maybe he got a call from some client."

"Maybe. Course, it's not like the whole world isn't going to know what happens pretty soon. He'll hear it on the news."

Wilson looked at House, curious suddenly. "Did Lucas give you . . .never mind." A double-barreled glare from Cuddy and House stopped that line of conversation in its tracks.

The twenty minutes stretched out one slow tick at a time, seeming about twice as long. The room behind them was full in the first ten. House sat there thinking. If this jury didn't get it right, there would be another trial in another state, and then another, then another. This could only be step one rather than any sort of conclusion. Cuddy put a hand on his arm, not saying anything, just being there. Martin seemed to feel the thoughts behind him, and he left his table and walked back around the railing to face House.

"Sentencing comes a little later," he said very softly. "We won't get that announced today. That's just the way the system works. But felony murder is considered first-degree, just as if he had planned on murder in the first place, and if we get guilty on that and all the multiple abuse charges, it's got to be life imprisonment without parole. This should end it today, just formalities left. You won't have to testify for sentencing."

"_If_ they decided guilty," House pointed out.

Martin smiled at him. "The deliberation was too short for there to be much conflict or debate. It's guilty."

House looked over at the empty jury box. He'd feel a lot better for hearing that from the jury foreman, not Martin.

At that moment, the side door opened, and Patrick was led back in by his guards. "Here we go," Martin said softly, and he turned away and went back to his table. Stevenson was already in his place. The jury filed in, looking solemn, and then the bailiff entered and called the court to attention as the judge took the bench.

"The defendant will stand." Patrick stood up, suddenly looking shaky, his fake bewildered look with visible fractures in it now. Stevenson stood next to him. "Patrick Chandler, you have been charged with felony murder, nineteen counts of physical abuse of a child, and twelve counts of sexual abuse of a child. Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

The foreman came to his feet. "We have, Your Honor." He handed the written sheet to the bailiff, who delivered it to the judge.

"What is your verdict?"

"We find the defendant guilty as charged on all counts."

"And so say you all?"

"So say we all."

Patrick wavered on his feet. House felt like he would have collapsed himself in relief if he hadn't already been sitting down. He didn't hear the rest of the formalities, the setting of a sentencing date, the judge thanking and then dismissing the jury. He only heard the one word, echoing through the room. _Guilty_. It was over. Patrick Chandler would spend the rest of his life in prison, and House would never have to take that witness stand again to testify against him, not in Princeton, not in any other state. It was _over_.

At least, it was over with Patrick.

"Greg?" He snapped back to the present. The judge was gone, and court was dismissed.

"Let's get out of here," he said. He came to his feet. There was a small delay while he had to extricate himself from Ann Bellinger, who gave him a hug, but after a few minutes, they were out of the courtroom. The crowd pressed in now. House looked toward the side hall. "Can I use your office for a minute?" he said to Martin. "I need to make a phone call. I promised I would."

"Of course." They pushed through the group into relative peace and quiet, and Martin unlocked the office door, then let House through.

"I need to call Jensen," House said to Cuddy in explanation. "He wanted to know the verdict. This won't take long."

"Okay, Greg." She shut the office door as she went back out herself, and House was left in privacy. He pulled out his cell phone, turned it back on (all cell phones off in the courtroom), and hit speed dial three.

"Hello." Jensen picked up quickly.

"Guilty on all counts," House reported. "They do sentencing later, but Martin says he has to get life with this level of charges."

He could _hear_ the psychiatrist's smile. "That's great. I expected that, but always nice to hear something officially." Silence lengthened for a moment. Jensen didn't push, but he didn't hang up, either.

"How are the scratches?" House asked.

"Healing up. I'm taking care of them."

"Good." Another pause. "Lucas gave me the background report yesterday," House said finally.

"It doesn't change anything, does it?" Jensen predicted.

"No, damn it. So the man's not Jack the Ripper reincarnate. But he _still_ left me there."

"Yes, he did, unintentionally."

"But he should have known." House trailed off, once again wondering about Blythe.

Jensen gave him some space, then said, "We can talk at length tonight if you want."

"I wanted a night with the kids. Plus I need to go back by the hospital first and make sure Kutner hasn't blown up the lab this last week or something; we've still got a few hours left of the afternoon." He knew that the next in-depth session with Jensen wouldn't be much easier than the last one.

"Or tomorrow night," Jensen said, amiable but persistent.

House would have preferred never, but he knew that Jensen wouldn't let him get away with that. Besides, he couldn't help _thinking_ about things anyway; it wasn't like avoiding talking would remove the topic from consideration. Tomorrow night was at least another 24 hours away. "Okay," he said reluctantly. "Tomorrow night. I'll give you the highlights of Lucas' report then, but one more thing that was interesting. Lucas says Thornton followed the defense attorney home Thursday. He didn't do anything, though. Just followed him, then left again."

He heard Jensen's thoughts kick into high gear. "That _is_ interesting. I wonder what he's planning."

"Oh, I'm sure he was going to talk to him about testifying, but then he chickened out. Too uncomfortable for him. He wouldn't ever inconvenience himself for me. Just run away as usual; that's the easier option." There was a pause on the other end. "What?" House demanded.

"I was just thinking."

"Gee, never would have guessed that. About _what_?"

"At the moment, that I'd better get out of this zoo bathroom that I'm in before my family sends in a search party. As far as anything else, we'll continue this conversation tomorrow night. Meanwhile, though, would you talk to Cathy for just a minute? She's been asking about you."

House felt oddly warmed by that, even though it puzzled him. "You sure _she_ isn't plotting something?"

Jensen laughed. "She's occupied today plotting how to keep us here until closing. That doesn't take much plotting, though." The sound of footsteps came, then a door, then more footsteps. "Here, Cathy. Dr. House just called; you can talk to him for just a minute, okay?" He handed the phone off.

"Hi, Dr. House!" The volume level of her enthusiasm was almost painful.

House moved the phone a little farther away from his ear. In the background, he could hear Jensen telling Melissa about the verdict. "Hi, Cathy."

"So did the jury get it right?"

He grinned. "Yes, they did. He's guilty of everything, and they're going to lock him up and throw away the key after a few more legal formalities."

"Great. I'm glad the jury wasn't made up of idiots."

"I'm glad, too. Did you see your dad's arm?"

"Yeah. You have an attack cat! That is _so_ cool."

His grin widened. "She's never done anything like that before. Still, maybe we need to get Attack Cat on Duty signs for the house. Anyway, it's healing up okay, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Good. I've got to go now, Cathy. I'll talk to you some other time. Tell your dad bye, okay?"

"I will. Bye, Dr. House. And good job in court. Bye."

House hit off. Unexpectedly, he was smiling as he opened the door to Martin's office and rejoined the others.

(H/C)

Half an hour later, after a painful but brief statement for the press, who had been waiting for him, House was back at PPTH. He limped into Diagnostics to find the conference room empty. Kutner, Foreman, and Taub were all in his office and had obviously been watching TV; Foreman was just in the act of turning it off. "They don't pay you to watch TV," House complained before they realized he was there. "That's what they pay _me_ for. You need to check the job descriptions more closely."

"Hey, House. Great job with the press; you sounded really good." Kutner surged over, almost holding out his hand for a shake before he caught himself.

"Glad the jury managed to do their job," Foreman stated. He looked stressed, no doubt remembering Thirteen. "I hope this bastard has a lot of fun in prison. Maybe now things can get back to normal."

"Did you all manage to kill anyone the last week?" House asked. "Break any equipment? Do any damage?"

"One case," Taub reported. "It was pretty easy, though. Sarcoidosis. No equipment damage."

"We have had several sightseers," Foreman noted. "Hopefully that will stop now that the verdict is in."

"I hope you told them all to go to hell and gave them specific directions," House said.

Kutner smiled. "Depends on if they were press or just public. There were a few press people the last week, trying to fish out inside information. We shut them down pretty quickly. Easy to spot them. With the others, though, just the curious family members in the hospital who had heard your name on the news, it actually worked better to be nice to them without really giving them any more details. They'd leave faster that way, but they still felt good about the hospital. We even had two visitors on Saturday when I was up here doing paperwork." Kutner was still interested in that second one, and he didn't quite know why. The man definitely hadn't been press; he was obviously a family member taking a walk around the hospital. Kutner would have bet a year's salary on that classification. But he had seemed a little different, too, in some undefined way.

House sliced ruthlessly through his thoughts. "Well, I'm so glad you've made sure people feel good about our hospital, but that's not the point. The point is saving _patients._ So let's go find one. Not press, not curious family members, but interesting, puzzling _patients._ Got it?"

The team, jolted back to their true purpose, scurried off in different directions to go patient fishing, and House sat down at his desk. Just a week ago, he hadn't yet started to testify, and he had had no idea Thornton was in town and about to crash back into his life. What a hell of a week. Of course, if Thornton was to be believed, it was only in the last two weeks that he had discovered that John was abusive, that House knew his paternity, and that he himself had screwed up everything for his unacknowledged son all those years ago instead of rescuing him when he could have. Thornton certainly qualified as having had a hell of a few weeks himself.

But he _should _have known.

House picked up his thinking ball, bouncing it off the walls, easy, predictable patterns that made sense.

(H/C)

The team did find a case down in the ER, not only that but an interesting case, and House was knee deep in differential when it was time to leave. He sent Cuddy on without him, promising to get there in time to see the girls, and while he kept that promise, he was distracted. She thought a tough case was exactly what he needed, but she wished he had had a good night's sleep after the court ordeal was over first. By the time he got home, the patient was stable but still interesting, and they were waiting for test results. House made several calls on his cell phone to the team that evening but did play with the girls, and Cuddy even let them stay up late for the family time.

After that, a nice long soak in the hot tub, a celebratory wine and ice cream post verdict adult-rated party to themselves, and finally, they headed for bed. House debated as he counted out his nighttime pills. He had been taking full dose on the sleeping pills throughout the trial, the dose that basically knocked him out as the pills worked so well on him. Still, they did need to start cutting it down again, and besides, he didn't want to be beyond reach of the team tonight in case the patient took a sudden turn for the worst. Kutner and Taub were staying at the hospital, but if things went wrong, they might need him. He took the Vicodin but only a very cut dose of the sleeping pill, dropping it from 10 mg all the way back down to 2.5. The trial was over, after all.

Cuddy emerged from the bathroom just as he took the mouthful of pills in one gulp dry. She flinched. "Ready for bed, Greg?"

"Yes. And don't worry; I haven't choked yet." He worked his leg up onto the bed slowly and settled back. "What a hell of a week."

"But it's over now." She knew as well as he did that it wasn't all over. She got in bed next to him and snuggled over. "I'm proud of you, Greg."

She was proud of him. Seizing that and trying to shelve the rest of everything for the moment, he drifted off down the tunnel of sleep.


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: Short update. This is all I've had time for. Life's gotten nuts the last couple of days, and I had to break this one up, but I'll do my best to get the rest of the confrontation written down this weekend for you. No promises but best efforts at least. Meanwhile, here's a little bit to whet your appetites as we back up some chronologically from House and Cuddy going to bed. I always did like Lucas as he was originally introduced on the show before they made him Cuddy's boyfriend with a sadistic streak.

(H/C)

Lucas had debated after leaving House's on Sunday afternoon. Technically, his assignment was over. He was proud of how much he had come up with on a tight timetable, and he knew that he and his sources had fully earned the nice-sized check in his pocket. Still, there was a sense of incompleteness.

He had never expected House to miss such an obvious conclusion. Of course, House was ticked off at Thornton, and it didn't take a genius to realize why. Lucas had fairly quickly identified the other man, given House's interest in him and request for investigation only one day after the blazing anger that had taken him over on the stand. Not that Lucas had seen the confrontation Tuesday night after court, but he realized quickly that there had to have been one. He'd never seen House that mad. Whatever set him off on Tuesday had been both unexpected and deeply personal. It had caught him totally off guard, which took some doing itself because House was normally many steps ahead of everyone around him. But then Wednesday in the bathroom, when he had asked for the background check, he had known Thornton's hotel and that the other man was attending the trial and might have heard Lucas' testimony. Ergo, they had had a showdown in between House's surprised recognition and fury on the stand Tuesday and court resuming Wednesday.

There weren't too many options for something deeply personal to House involving a former Marine in that age range who did resemble him in a haunting way. Finding a picture of the musician father on the internet had sealed the answer for Lucas; those two were dead ringers for each other. And naturally House was mad at his biological father, who had apparently never come forward during childhood, instead leaving his son in the hands of the enemy. But Lucas hadn't expected House to let his anger stop him from logical thinking. Thornton was planning something related to the defense attorney, and since he hadn't done anything except reconnaissance Thursday night when he followed him home, obviously he was waiting until after the verdict to put his plan into action.

It _had_ to be after the verdict. That was the only answer that fit the known data on Thornton combined with nonaction Thursday night. But House had jumped instead to deciding the man had chickened out. Whatever was going on, Lucas was sure Thornton hadn't chickened out. House's answer didn't fit the facts here, yet House obviously had no intention of considering anything else.

Which left Lucas' curiosity unsatisfied. When he had mentioned Thornton's interest in Stevenson, he had really expected House to keep him on the payroll a little longer to find out what was going on. The fact that House hadn't even considered further action by Thornton possible left Lucas in a dilemma.

He _knew_ that something was going to happen after the verdict. And whatever it was was absolutely none of his business, professionally or personally. And he hated that answer.

Finally, Lucas decided to stay on the assignment on his own. He couldn't bill House for this - though he wouldn't refuse payment if offered, assuming he gave the information to House at all, which he would decide after having it. But like a cat, Lucas had ample curiosity. It was almost a professional requirement. He also found Thornton fascinating and wouldn't mind watching him in action as an interesting comparison.

Of course, the fact that Thornton first of all had seen him testify and second of all came equipped with his own well-trained instincts, as Lucas had discovered Thursday night, made things much more difficult. Lucas couldn't simply follow Thornton after the verdict. Right on the edge of a mission, the man would be even more alert than he had the other night, the adrenaline flowing. Nor could Lucas stake out Stevenson's home and wait, as Thornton might sense the eyes watching.

Instead, Lucas left as soon as the case went to the jury. Thornton would wait around court to hear the verdict, but the jury probably wouldn't take too long with it. Any idiot could see there was no doubt, reasonable or otherwise, about Patrick Chandler. Thornton then would keep an eye on Stevenson, but he probably wouldn't move until dark, assuming that he didn't want to actually break into the house to act sooner. Lucas figured he would have some qualms about that. Apparently, since he was delaying action until after the verdict, he wanted to avoid attention and publicity, doing nothing that Stevenson could immediately trumpet in court in front of the press the next day and use to distract everyone from the point of the trial. But Stevenson being a lawyer, actual crimes after the trial would also lead to swift protest and charges. No, Thornton seemed to want to avoid publicity.

Besides, breaking into his house and beating Stevenson up was too commonplace. Even on his short acquaintance, Lucas knew that wasn't Thornton's style. Show time would most likely be outdoors somewhere but as private as possible and would take place after dark, and the weapons used would not be mainly physical. That assumed timetable gave Lucas a little bit of a head start on the evening's feature presentation, and he knew he would need it.

Lucas had already identified Thornton's rental car, and he had slipped a bug into it late last night at the hotel. That was ready and waiting, just in case he was misreading the scene of action; he might pick up some clue if Thornton headed in a different direction. Actually, he had bugged Thornton's hotel room even before that while Thornton was gone somewhere with the car, but a period of listening in last night yielded no results, just a fairly nice concert. Thornton didn't conveniently talk to himself, and he obviously plotted alone.

Now, the PI headed for Stevenson's house. He had been here last night, too, after determining that Thornton wasn't, and he'd spent the evening watching Stevenson. The house was smallish and impersonal, probably a rental, but it had one exterior feature that immediately drew Lucas' attention. There was a fairly high hedge in between Stevenson's and his neighbor's, and with the nearest street light beyond the hedge, the hedge at night would cast a shadow across half of the front yard, including the sidewalk up to the house. It was the perfect spot for somebody to wait for an ambush. Stevenson had also walked to a nearby bar and grill last night for dinner. He wasn't married and might well eat out much more than he cooked. If he went out routinely, he would pass through the extended shadow as he arrived home tonight, and if he delayed a bit in post trial letdown for a few additional drinks, he would be past dark.

Since he would be here setting up in broad daylight, Lucas had brought some of the best cover story available, Jehovah's Witness literature, in case the neighbors were home or watching. It was one of the fastest ways he knew to make people lose interest in him. He parked his car on the street a few houses down and started with the house at the end. By the time he was at the fifth house, Stevenson's, he had had one person quickly end the conversation, one pretend not to be home, and two apparently legitimate not-homes. He marched up with purposeful stride to Stevenson's door, rang the door bell, waited, and rang it again. After a few more minutes, he stuck a leaflet through the screen door handle, turned away and walked down the sidewalk and along the driveway, turning as he reached the street at the end of the hedge, heading innocently toward the next house in line. Behind him, he left bugs on the front porch and at three places spaced along the hedge. If anything happened here tonight, he would hear it.

Five minutes later, satisfied with his preparations, Lucas got back in his car and drove on. He parked at a shopping center a few minutes away, bought himself lunch, and settled down in his car with the radio on, waiting for the verdict.


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: There don't seem to be many people around on a weekend, at least not reviewing. Thanks to those that did. Here's the confrontation between Thornton and Stevenson, which I think reveals a lot about the way Thornton thinks and plans things. As somebody said once, but I forget who, humiliation is the best revenge. Next chapter will be pure House/Cuddy interaction to make up for them being gone for two chapters.

(H/C)

It was later than usual as Stevenson walked home after dinner. For one thing, he'd delayed going until he was sure the TV news was past and the people there watching it had probably left. He didn't feel like the "everyone gets a defense" argument tonight. He'd even considered staying home and cooking or ordering in, but with his divorce less than a year ago, it still felt horribly lonely to be cooking just for one or to order take-out for only yourself. Today had already been a hell of a day on all other fronts; he didn't want to end it on a painfully obvious reminder of rebachelorhood. The one positive aspect of the day so far was that he had apparently missed the Jehovah's Witnesses, and when that becomes the highlight of your day, you know you're reaching.

The other reason he was later than usual is that once at the bar, he'd stayed for some extra drinks after his standard burger. To his relief, nobody wanted to challenge him on the case. A baseball game was on this evening and had become the focal point of attention, and Stevenson sat there in the crowd, not alone though not exactly with them, and managed to switch off his mind as much as he'd been able to all day. The trial was over, after all, and he didn't have to be in court tomorrow.

Now as he came home, he was glad he usually walked around the corner, in a token nod to getting exercise, instead of taking the car. He didn't think himself that he was over the limit, not far anyway, but he was definitely somewhat buzzed, and he didn't want to conclude this spectacularly bad day being challenged by a police officer. All he wanted to do was go inside and go to bed before the pleasant numbness he'd finally achieved wore off.

The attorney turned into his driveway and fumbled in his pocket for his keys, which were trying to evade his fingers for some reason.

"You wanted to talk to me," a deep voice said abruptly from directly behind his right shoulder.

Stevenson jumped left, shying away from the voice, which took him back more toward the hedge. He stumbled slightly as he landed and whirled. Idiot. Should have dodged the other way and bolted toward the door. Maybe he could have made it. Instead, his assailant was now in between him and the door, and the hedge was to his back. The man's face was in the shadow, but he loomed over Stevenson.

"I'm n-not . . I mean. . . I haven't g-got much on me." He stammered over the words as he tried to convince his fingers to extract his wallet. The keys finally cooperated, and he dropped them in the dark. Where the hell was his wallet? Oh yeah, back pocket. He finally retrieved it. "Here. Just t-take it. Take it all."

"I don't want your money," the man replied, sounding disgusted, as if the proffered cash were sullied. "But _you_ wanted to talk to me. You were very anxious to meet up with me, so congratulations. You get your wish. We need to have a little . . . conversation."

Stevenson's pulse kicked up even faster at the ominous pause before conversation. "Who the hell are you?"

The man came a step closer, and Stevenson backed until he actually felt the scratchy branches behind him. "You know who I am. You were the one asking for me, only you were asking my _son_ where to find me, trying to use me against him."

Abruptly, Stevenson recognized him. Shit, shit, _shit_. This was all he needed tonight. "I didn't . . . it was just saying stuff. You know, that's what lawyers do in court. Just saying stuff. It's all over now, and the trial is over. I've already forgotten about wanting your evidence."

Thornton closed in, and Stevenson cringed into the hedge. How tall was the man? He had to be pushing 6 feet 3, but tonight, he seemed even taller. "You wanted this conversation. You made a _public_ point of asking for it, took up several minutes of the court's time trying to get permission to locate me, so we're going to have it. What's the matter, Private? Oh, yes, I know you're a private. At least you _were_. Didn't last but a few months. What's the matter, was the service not good enough for you?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I just. . . wanted to do other things. . . made a mistake."

"You couldn't take it." Thornton spat the words out.

"Okay, then, I couldn't take it." Stevenson tried to straighten up, his body attempting to come to attention.

"I was in the Marines myself. Did you know that? Yes, I'm a Marine, just like _he_ was, spent 21 years in the Corps. In fact, John House and I went to boot camp together. We learned everything there together." Stevenson was starting to tremble in his shoes. "But John never really understood it. He didn't get the _full_ message of how to be a true Marine." Thornton advanced another half step. "_I did._ In fact, I also had lots of _special_ training he never got._" _

"I, I, I didn't m-mean any disrespect to. . ."

"Oh, but you did. And you definitely meant disrespect to Greg. You slimy son-of-a-bitch, trying to take his past and how he's overcome it and belittle him with that. He has more strength than you ever _dreamed_ about. Don't lie to me and tell me you weren't sneering at him up there on the stand."

"It was just . . . I swear, it was just a court tactic."

"SHUT UP." Stevenson dropped at least two inches in height as his knees started to buckle, and he barely stayed on his feet. "You want to cross-examine somebody, you bastard? Well, why don't you go after someone who actually _made _the mistakes? Greg is innocent in all of this, but he was strong enough to _survive._ I'm the one who didn't realize what was going on, who left him there without seeing it. You want to belittle anybody for what happened in the past, you talk to _me_. So fire away. Start your attack. I'll even plead guilty to unforgivable obtuseness, but you were so eager asking for the chance to question me, and you're going to get it. Go."

"I. . ." His teeth were beginning to chatter now. "I've ch-changed m-my mind. I'm s-sorry."

"You don't owe me an apology. You owe _Greg_ one."

"I'll give it. I'll send him a letter. I'll call."

"No, you won't. Because _Greg_ deserves to never have to hear from you again in his life. You're not going to waste one more minute of his time and attention. You're not worth it." Thornton closed in another step. "But I want you to know that this last week, you've insulted somebody who is twenty times the man you'll ever be. If it weren't for embarrassing him with the public spectacle, I would have come over from the overflow room right then and let you have it. But watching that whole cross, I have never been more proud of him or more disgusted with anybody as I was with the likes of you. Made me think about what I'd _like_ to do to you. You attacked my son, you son-of-a-bitch."

It was at that moment that Stevenson lost control of his bladder. "I'm s-s-s-sorry. I didn't, I mean. . . I really admire him. I c-couldn't have taken it. But I w-won't tell him so. I'll stay away, if that's what you want. I'll do anything you want. Just _please_ d-don't . . ." Stevenson put both hands down in front of his pants, trying to hide the evidence and trying to prepare his suddenly Jell-O body for defense.

Thornton looked down. "What's the matter? Did you piss yourself?"

"N-no. I mean, yes. Yes, sir."

Thornton stepped back, widening the gap, and Stevenson leaned back into the hedge for support, only to straighten up with a jerk as a sharp branch poked him. "Are you _scared_ of me?"

"I. . . I . . ."

"Do you know how old I am?" Stevenson tried to make his brain calculate, but Thornton answered before he could guess. "I'm 74. Not far from 75. And I'm scaring you? I just wanted to talk to you, like I said. Have I laid a single finger on you?"

"N-no. No, you haven't. No, we've just been talking. Like you said."

"Do you want to stop talking?"

"Y-yes. Please."

Thornton immediately retreated another step. "Of course. All you had to do was ask. Have you ever asked me to leave once you realized who I was?" His whole tone had changed.

"No."

"So you haven't specifically asked me to leave your property?"

"No." Stevenson unstuck himself from the hedge, but he still stayed in the shadow. His pants clung to him, damp and wet. "W-would you leave? Please?"

"Of course. It's your property after all. I'll leave right now. In fact, if you want, I'll go straight down to the police station with you and will confess to scaring you. Even though I haven't actually touched you, scaring somebody has to be worth something. Do you want to press charges?"

Stevenson couldn't think of anything he'd _less_ like to do than march with wet pants into the police station, where they would still be talking about the case and definitely knew him, and say that this 74-year-old man, who hadn't in fact touched him, had _scared_ him. "No. No, I don't want to press charges. Just a misunderstanding. I had asked you to come, you know. My fault. Sorry. I had invited you, so you came. But you can just leave now, and I'll go inside."

"Fine." Thornton took two steps away, then stopped. "By the way, if you ever change your mind, just let me know." He pulled a small recorder out of his pocket. "I've got a full recording of our conversation, and it would be evidence, of course. Any time you want to charge me, I will turn it over gladly to the police and to the media and head for court to take my sentence. Everybody can listen to it in court and decide what I deserve for scaring you. Actually, once I get home, I'll send you a copy, although I'll keep more than one myself, and not all of those in the same place. All you have to do, if you change your mind, is to take it to the police, take it to the media, or ever show your slimy little face in front of my son again or say another word against him or to him. Do that, and I'll know you want to charge me, so I'll be back with bells on, and we'll all head for court to let the judge and jury listen to it and decide. So just let me know if you want to continue this matter legally. I will be paying attention." Thornton turned away. "Good night." The exit line almost sounded like a pleasant, social dismissal. He walked away, posture straight, stride even and strong.

Stevenson's legs finally gave out, and he crumpled to the ground in a quaking, wet heap. It was five minutes before he could even start patting through the darkness looking for his house key.


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: Here's another chapter, one of my favorites, written out this morning during an internet downage. Glad folks liked Thornton's style. About Lucas, we shall see. :) But Thornton made his point, perhaps pushing things a little, but nothing approaching a felony since no physical force or financial gain involved, and to pursue legal action at all, Stevenson would have to have the recording made public in his own day-to-day circles, which Thornton would ensure went as public as possible. Even "winning" legally if he even did would not be a victory. Turning private humiliation into extreme public humiliation isn't worth it for Stevenson given the minor charges that might result. Somebody commented on Thornton's appearance a few chapters back, but suffice it to say, while Clint Eastwood was a very good comparison for the last chapter, Thornton is quite capable of looking like a perfectly pleasant and amiable old geezer, and the Thornton who appeared in court if it came to that would not be Eastwoodish, just as the Thornton Stevenson did see in court that first night was totally different. He's a chameleon. :) And Stevenson truly is a total coward. Thornton has him pegged right, and the purpose of the recording is to keep things silent.

But before we get down to Jensen, Lucas, and final events of the story on Tuesday fic time, we return to the House house . . .

(H/C)

_The strip of carpet was tight across his chest, constricting his breathing, but there was no oxygen anyway even if he had been able to fully inhale. There was only carpet glue, pressing in so strongly that Greg didn't know how he hadn't suffocated already. _

_John was laughing. Standing there in Marine uniform, looking at his son, laughing. _

_"You aren't here, damn it! You left me alone," Greg insisted. "I was there all day alone." _

_"Oh, you've got that partly right. You were always alone. But it wasn't that nobody else was here. Look around, Greg." _

_Greg looked around as best he could from his position absolutely pinned to the floor. Suddenly he noticed Thomas Thornton. His father was standing in the doorway to the room, looking at him. "Help me!" Greg screamed. "HELP ME!" Thornton just stood there looking at him for a minute, then turned away, and he never looked back, even with his son's frantic pleas pursuing him out of the the room. Soon even the sound of his retreating footsteps was gone. _

_John was having trouble standing up now, he was so overcome with laughter. "He doesn't hear you, Greg. Nobody will ever hear you. In fact, look around a little more closely." _

_Greg turned his head, fighting for every inch of movement. Finally, his eyes reached the corner of the room. Blythe sat there in a rocking chair, knitting, humming to herself. "Mom! MOM!" She never even raised her head. Greg kicked his feet against the floor as much as he could, adding bangs to his shouts. Thornton had been standing in the doorway, had looked at him before leaving, but Blythe was actually in the same room, just a few feet away. Her attention was on her knitting, and even though her son screamed himself hoarse, she never looked up. He finally gave up, in tears now, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. There was no air in the room. His throat was tightening up as much as his chest, and he was getting dizzy for lack of oxygen. _

_John came closer, still laughing. "It doesn't matter how hard you try, Greg. Nobody else will ever notice you. You'll always be alone - except for me." His hands reached out, eager fingers flexing, anticipating crushing his son's body already even before they had grasped him._

"Greg?"

The pressure was suddenly gone from his chest, and he could move again. He jumped desperately sideways, trying to escape John's approaching hands, even though he knew the futility of that. Unexpectedly, the floor opened up under him, and he felt himself falling, hitting his head against something on the way down, but that was promptly lost in the second and far greater blow along his right side. His leg immediately was on fire, blazing through every nerve ending, and he clenched his teeth to keep from screaming. Had John somehow hit him in the leg?

"Greg!" Not John's voice. It was _her_ voice, with a brittle, sharp edge of horror in it. Her hands a moment later, reaching out, holding and steadying him. Still trapped between the nightmare and the present, pain on both sides, unsure which agony was real, House finally managed to open his eyes.

He was on the floor in their bedroom, and she was kneeling next to him, peering at his face, looking absolutely terrified. He looked around, just making sure. John was gone, and so were Thornton and Blythe. The pain was still there, however. His leg was shrieking at him, the disrupted muscles and nerves each clamoring to outdo the other. He tried to make himself relax, tried to steady his breathing and claim the air now available, but it was hard against the physical onslaught.

"Greg." Cuddy was trying valiantly to control her own fear, not to let it immobilize her. "Easy, Greg. You're in our bedroom. It was just a dream. Hold still."

He closed his eyes again. Just a dream. It was over now. John was dead, and the others - well, although alive, they at least weren't here. His leg wouldn't let him relax, though. He felt Cuddy's hands at his temple. Gentle, loving hands, but they were trembling just now. He could feel it. "I'm okay," he managed, opening his eyes. In the next second he noticed the blood on her hands, and he quickly sat up and reached for her. His leg promptly went into the full spasm it had been forecasting.

He heard her anxious voice at a distance over the roar of the pain. "Greg, I need to go get a few things. Back in just a minute." Her hands pulled away, and he felt her leaving.

His eyes were shut tight again, both of his own hands on his thigh, but he managed to force the words out through the barrier of pain. "I hurt you."

"No, you didn't, Greg. I promise, I'm all right. Hold on." The predicted minute probably wasn't much longer, but it seemed to stretch out endlessly against the spasm. The volume of his leg was increasing, even though he would have sworn it was at maximum already. The pain was tightening up around his chest much as the carpet had in his dream, and it was getting harder to breathe. Caught up in sensory overload and in worry over her, he didn't even think to object to the stronger meds before he felt the prick of a needle plunge home. A second needle a few seconds later, and he felt the relief spread outward from his arm, heading for his leg, the two tidal waves of pain and medicine slamming into each other and fighting for dominion. Slowly the medicine won, but it was a battle. The pain receded, but it was still there, gnawing into him at a low growl.

"I hurt you," he repeated.

Her hands had gone back to his temple again instead of massaging the remnants of spasm out of his leg, but he appreciated any contact. Pain with her was far better than pain with John. "No, you didn't. Just relax. Is the morphine helping?"

Morphine. She had given him morphine, but she was hurt herself. He had hurt her while locked in his nightmare. He couldn't be off line right now. He pulled his eyes back open, feeling the familiar, detested fog settling across his brain. "You can't give me that. I need to . . ."

"Right now, you need to settle down. I didn't have any choice just then, but I didn't give you enough to put you out. It's okay, Greg. Don't fight it. Just think about breathing for a minute."

He reached for her hands, pulling one down from the side of his head and inspecting for the injury. "You're bleeding." Annoyed, he heard that his words were slurring ever so slightly. He could almost see the narcotic cloud closing in, dark and thick. This was _exactly_ why he preferred Vicodin; it didn't dull his mind.

"No, I'm not bleeding. _You _are." She took the other hand away momentarily, showing him the now-stained washcloth that she had picked up in the bathroom, then quickly resumed the pressure along his temple. "You jumped out of the nightmare, and you fell out of bed. You hit your head on the nightstand on the way down and then landed on your leg." Her hands were still shaking, and he could feel it. He marveled that she had managed to hit a vein a minute ago. "I'm all right, Greg. I'm not hurt at all. Just hold still and breathe. I'm trying to stop the bleeding."

She might not be hurt, but she was on the edge of panic. "Need to take an Ativan," he mumbled.

She hesitated, torn between her current mission and the fact that she knew he was right. The shock of his fall and the sight of the bright red life running down the side of his face had shaken her up badly. She had to stay functional; he needed first aid and assessment. She picked up his right hand, pressing the washcloth into it. "Here. Hold the pressure, okay? Tight."

"I'm a doctor, too," he protested. "Know how to . . ."

"Stop talking and just hold it." She pushed his hand down in demonstration. Of course, with morphine and diazepam both on board, he wouldn't have the muscle tone she did, but for a minute, she hoped it would be all right. She quickly rounded the bed, retrieved her pills, and gulped an Ativan, keeping an anxious eye on him over the mattress between them. He was _trying_ to hold the pressure, at least, but his eyes were foggy, and he was sagging against the side of the bed. She hadn't liked giving him the drugs on top of a head injury, and she hadn't given him a knockout dose, but he had needed something urgently for the pain to bring it down to bearable. His pulse and respirations had been heading into dangerous levels. She hated to think what it must have felt like to fall directly onto his leg.

Returning around the bed, she knelt down again, taking over on the washcloth. "Okay. I took an Ativan. Now both of us, just calm down. Everything's going to be fine." She held pressure for a while longer, then pulled the cloth away for a look. The bleeding was slowing down, almost stopped now. A few more minutes ought to do it. She pushed the cloth back down, amazed that he didn't even flinch at the pressure. Of course, his leg was probably louder than this, even with morphine assistance. He hadn't been aware of the cut at all at first, any pain from it lost in the leg.

The next time she checked, the bleeding had stopped. "Greg?"

"Mmm?" His eyes had been closed again, but he opened them. He was calmer now, at least. She checked his pulse, which was much better, and his breathing was no longer horribly constricted and uneven as it had been at first.

"Look at me." She studied his eyes, trying to separate drugs from injury. They were hazy, clouds drifting across the beautiful blue. "I need to figure out if you've got a concussion and decide if we need to go to the hospital."

That got a sharper response, and he sat up straighter briefly. "No. I'm fine. Just fell out of bed."

She sighed. "I wish I hadn't had to give you those shots, but I didn't have any choice right then. Your pulse was about 150, and your breathing was way too fast and shallow. V fib wouldn't help the situation any. But none of the memory tests are going to be quite fair now, and your eyes look like you're only half home, so I can't use pupil reactivity as any kind of check, either."

"Match?"

"What?" Her concern was ramping up again. Was he getting delirious? "What on earth do matches have to do with . . ."

He shook his head, annoyed. "No. The pupils. Should match, even with drugs."

"Good point." It wasn't 100% diagnostic for a minor concussion, but she could at least get a better idea about major injury that way. The pupils _not_ being equal would definitely merit an ER visit. "Just a second; let me get the penlight." She returned with the penlight plus their first aid kit and another washcloth damp with warm water; she hadn't taken time to grab other supplies in the first place on the urgent mission for the rescue meds. A quick glance at the cut along his temple showed that it still wasn't bleeding. That much was good, at least. "Okay, Greg, look straight at me." She flashed the light into his eyes. He didn't flinch away from it, and while his eyes definitely showed the influence of a powerful narcotic, they were equal to the light even if not normal. "Does the light bother you?"

"Don't think so." One hand went back to his leg. "Not sure I'd know. Not 'smuch as the leg, if at all."

She stood up. "Do you think you can get back up on the bed?" If he couldn't, she was calling 911 no matter what he thought. Or at least calling 91-Wilson.

He tried. None of his muscles were working quite right now, and the leg was still insulted, but between Cuddy, the nightstand, and the bed, he had support on three out of four sides for the attempt. He made it, though it was an effort, and both hands were on his leg again by the time he was sitting up in bed. "I'm going to get the heating pad," Cuddy said, "and then we'll have a better look at that cut." She returned in a minute with the heating pad, draped it across his thigh, and plugged it in. "Does your head hurt, Greg?"

"No." Clearly the truth, but she wasn't sure how accurate that was as a gauge. He could still have a minor concussion and his leg just be drowning it out. She could tell he was still in some pain, even through the morphine. On the other hand, he had shaken his head pretty firmly a few minutes ago, and he hadn't visibly reacted to that. He didn't act dizzy, just drugged.

She washed the blood off his face, then started cleaning the gash on his temple, getting a better look at it. It had bled fairly freely, but any injury there was going to bleed. It was a pretty straight cut, fortunately well in front of the healed skull fracture on that side from the bus crash. He hadn't hit himself at the old site again, just clipped the corner of the nightstand on his way down. "I think I might be able to just butterfly this together, Greg. Maybe it won't need stitches."

"No hospital," he repeated. "Bad enough to work there. Not be a patient. I'll stitch."

She grinned for the first time in this whole crisis. "There is _no_ way I'm letting you stitch up the side of your own head while you're on morphine. You'd never get it straight."

He smiled himself. "But not boring."

"There are a few areas where plain, boring, routine methods are better. Stitching up cuts is one of them. Let's see here. . ." She carefully brought the edges together with butterfly strips. He never twitched. He hadn't even reacted to the alcohol wipe a minute ago. "Not too bad. I'll have one of the others look at it at the hospital in the morning for a second opinion, but I don't think we need to go tonight, at least. Unless you get worse."

"Time is it?"

She looked at the clock. "1:30." Suddenly exhausted, she closed up the first aid kit and walked back around to her side of the bed, climbing in and immediately pulling him over against her, holding on fiercely.

"I'm okay, Lisa." He sounded drowsy. His eyes had fallen closed.

"You didn't take the sleeping pill, did you?"

"Did, too."

"What did you do, cut the dose in half?" He shook his head again, encouraging on the concussion debate but not saying much for common sense. "You cut it _more_ than in half? How much did you take?"

"2.5," he said finally.

"You cut it down that far abruptly the very night this whole court ordeal finished?"

His eyes opened again. "Couldn't be out of reach for the team. Oh, hell." Even slightly slurred, the irritation came through. "Can't work. What if. . ."

"It will wear off, Greg. We may be a little late, but we'll get there." For one thing, she wanted another doctor's objective assessment of his head injury. "Meanwhile, the team can deal with whatever comes up with your patient. They're doctors, too. You shouldn't have cut it that much at once."

"But 'sover," he insisted.

She sighed again. "You know damn well everything isn't over." He'd just been being stubborn. He _knew_ not to slash the dose suddenly like that, and he definitely knew how much stress still remained.

He looked up at her, analytical even while foggy, gauging her fear and worry. "Sorry," he said after a moment.

She had him held right against her already, and with his slumped posture, she was the taller one right now. She bent her head and kissed him lightly across the bandage. "What were you dreaming about?" she asked.

He tensed up or at least tried to. His muscles didn't completely receive that transmission. "What do you think? I have nightmares sometimes. Just part of the deal. Know that."

"Greg." Her tone sliced ruthlessly through his evasion. "I have _never_ seen you have a nightmare like that. It was way past the others."

He looked back up at her, his face oddly frozen suddenly. "Was I screaming?"

"No. You were saying something, but it was so soft I couldn't even make it out. Just totally locked up, almost paralyzed, like usual, but your expression was worse than usual. Whatever you were seeing, it was even more than you normally relive in the dreams. I could tell that much. And at the end, once you started reacting physically, you didn't just jerk awake like always; you _jumped_. You weren't on the edge of the bed and just lost your balance or moved too quickly. You actually jumped off of it."

He ran one hand down his leg. "Stupid."

"It wasn't being stupid; it was trying to escape. And it wasn't only John you were escaping. What?"

He closed his eyes again. "No fair. 'Terrogation under morphine. Unfair advantage."

Cuddy chewed on her lower lip. Technically, he was right, and she _was_ supposed to be trying not to push, but that had been terrifying to watch, a nightmare even secondhand. She knew there was a difference here, not just his standard horrific PTSD dreams. Even with Ativan, she knew that her own blood pressure was probably still up.

House nestled closer into her chest. "It's okay, Lisa," he repeated.

"At least talk to Jensen, Greg, even if you don't want to talk to me."

"Yeah. Gonna call him tomorrow night. Tonight, I guess. He really had wanted to . . ." House pulled himself up on the edge of that statement. Damn the morphine. It voiced his thoughts at times all on its own.

"He wanted to talk earlier? Like last night?" Cuddy suggested, filling in the gap. She knew House's conversation in Martin's office hadn't been long enough to really get into anything, but she hadn't known that Jensen specifically tried to schedule a longer session ASAP.

He sighed. "Yes. Put him off."

"Greg, _please_ don't put him off. If he thought you needed to talk to him in detail last night, he was probably right." In fact, based on this nightmare, she was sure of it.

House _knew_ Jensen had been right and had known it at the time. He just didn't like the answer. He could feel her worry, though. He had scared her badly tonight, and he hadn't meant to. After a minute of silence, he spoke up suddenly, not the morphine that time but a deliberate, implied apology. "Carpet glue."

"You were dreaming about the carpet glue?" It was probably the worst single abuse episode, but she still thought this dream had taken things to a new level.

"Uh huh. But then. . . Thornton was there watching for a minute, and he turned away. Then . . ." He paused for a long time there. Cuddy was mentally on the edge of her seat, but she didn't push. "Mom was there."

"She was watching, too?"

"No. She. . ." He stalled, and she stroked his hair soothingly. "She was _knitting._ She didn't even see. She didn't see _anything_. But she was right there in the room the whole time." She saw the silent tears start running down his cheeks now, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

"It's okay, Greg. It's over."

He leaned into her, closing his eyes again. "You think she shouldn't have missed it?" he asked finally.

She paused, debating whether she should answer that. Her silence gave the answer. "You do."

"Yes," she said. "I do." She tightened up her grip on him, ready to defend him from John or Blythe or anything else for the rest of tonight. "Greg, I think you're right. We don't need to be having this conversation while you're drugged. I don't want you to regret talking to me later. But please, talk to Jensen, okay? See if he can talk to you in the morning, at least for a few minutes. Tell him about the dream. Don't put it off until tomorrow night - or tonight, whichever we want to call it." She felt the stubbornness in him. "Please, Greg."

Silence, and then he finally said, "Kay."

She kissed him again. "Just go to sleep. But I'm going to wake you up every hour or two to check on you, okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Humor me."

"You need sleep, too."

She knew she did, but she didn't think she'd sleep much more than in snatches for the rest of tonight anyway. "I'll get some. I'll also call Marina to take the girls in the morning. We can go back to bed for a little. And then you can call Jensen."

He didn't reply. She thought he was almost asleep, but he spoke up again just on the edge, his voice distant, the words running together. "Mom 'ranged piano lessons. Got those for me after Dad gave her a piano they found cheap. So she did do _one_ big thing for me." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

He didn't say anything else. Cuddy was still mostly sitting up, his head pulled across into her lap, and she traced the bandage and watched his breathing even out. Finally, she reached over left handed, keeping her right on him, and reset the alarm clock to allow herself an hour and a half's nap. That would work to spare him another nightmare, too, in case one was lurking. He couldn't take a round two for tonight like the first one. She didn't think she could, either.

After a moment's debate, she picked up the cell phone and typed off a lengthy text to Jensen. This might impact his plans for the morning, after all; better to give him some kind of notice as soon as he got up than just to disrupt him at random when he was with his family, and they stood a better chance of him being available to talk that way. She felt a little guilty in advance for tearing up Jensen's day.

She was far more shaken up, though, still remembering trying to bring House out of that dream, which had been harder than usual, then seeing him abruptly jump off the bed and clip the nightstand on the way down. The sound of the blow still echoed in her ears, not that it had been that loud actually, but then the blood had come. For those first moments, she had thought the injury was far worse than it turned out to be. She shivered. But her own personal issues and anxieties aside, she had spoken the truth. She had _never_ seen anything in his dreams as desperate as that leap as he bolted from the nightmare, and his breathing at first, whether due to the grip of the glue or the pain or a combination, had been frighteningly uneven, as well as his pulse racing. Any doctor would have been alarmed at those numbers. She really did want some professional backup and assessment here and wanted it sooner than tomorrow night.

_Greg had worst nightmare ever tonight. Dove off the bed at the end of it, fell on his leg and hit his head. Don't think he has a concussion, but he cut his head; will get him checked out no matter what he thinks when we go to the hospital. He had cut the meds way down abruptly. He said it was carpet glue but with Thornton and Blythe in it, too. There's also something else from Saturday night's call with Blythe that she told him. He won't say, says it's too much now with all else but did say nothing to do with how he feels about Blythe or Thornton. Something totally new. He's still all tied in knots over things. Talked him into calling you Tuesday morning sometime, but not sure when. I had to give him morphine. I know you're on vacation, but please give him a few minutes at least if you can. Thanks. _

She hit send, then turned off the light and slid down gently in bed, trying not to disturb him but not moving him off of her. After a minute, she turned the light back on so she could still see her husband. She felt a little better for enlisting an ally, and Jensen was a powerful one, but it was a long journey back to sleep.


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: Another short update; broke this one up due to time constraints and deciding it was long enough already anyway. Next is the Jensen session. After that, the wrap-up. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Jensen had always been a morning person. Even on vacation, it was hard to stay in bed past 6:00. He tried to slip out of bed quietly, but Melissa, definitely not a morning person, felt the movement of the mattress and mumbled a protest, still mostly asleep, "Michael, we're on vacation." Jensen grinned to himself and tip-toed out of the bedroom. The whole house was silent. Cathy wasn't a morning person any more than her mother was, and it was hard enough to get her motivated during the school year. Actually, it was _harder_ to get her motivated during the school year. She had reasons to be excited about today, but even so, he never would have expected her to be awake under her own power at 6:00.

He started coffee in the kitchen, then stepped out on the front porch. The newborn day seemed fine and clear. The paper was waiting in the driveway; whether through necessity or inclination, the carrier had to be a morning person, too. Jensen went out for it in pajamas, then returned to the kitchen and settled down with a cup of coffee for a far more leisurely than usual perusal; he _did_ make some allowances for being on vacation. The headline story was the Chandler verdict, and he read it three times, enjoying his more complete view of the case. No trial in New York would be necessary. Patrick should be safely stowed for life. The psychiatrist continued through the rest of the paper, especially checking the weather forecast. They had tickets to a matinee of Into the Woods this afternoon at 2:30, but the rest of the day was still open, although he would need to talk to House tonight. Tomorrow should be a fun one; they were going to New York City for the day and for a big concert tomorrow night, seeing a famous pianist. Cathy was already practically vibrating looking forward to that trip. Jensen wondered briefly about House's grandfather, the concert pianist, and if he had ever made it to Carnegie Hall himself.

Having finished the paper and a cup of coffee, he stood up, debating the next step. Take a run this morning, or would he need that tonight to resettle himself after talking to House? He thought of starting breakfast, but it wasn't quite time yet from the point of view of the others. Finally, he decided on a run; he could always just add another one tonight. He headed back into the bedroom to pick up running clothes and his cell phone, which had been charging on the nightstand. To his surprise, he noticed as he picked up the phone and turned it on that he had a text message, and he quickly went in to read it, already with a sense of dread even before seeing the sender. There weren't too many possibilities for a text message received in the middle of the night while he was on vacation and had someone else taking coverage with his patients. All but one patient, that was.

Jensen read the message and sat down abruptly with a sigh on the edge of the bed, looking at the small screen as if hoping it would change. He had expected House's turmoil on Blythe and Thornton to kick up once Patrick was deleted, and he really would have preferred to have a session last night, but he hadn't expected House to abruptly slash the dose on the medicines immediately after the trial. That had been an engraved and hand-delivered invitation to a nightmare, setting himself up for the night to fail. For somebody so medically brilliant, he could pull an idiotic move occasionally personally, usually from pure stubbornness. Hand in hand with exasperation came concern. Cuddy didn't think he had a concussion, and she would be beyond careful in judging that, but it still sounded like he had banged himself up thoroughly. Poor Cuddy. She was just a month out from her own meltdown and still anxious about her husband's physical well-being. Last night had to have been a nightmare for her as much as him.

A hand curled around his arm from behind. "Michael? What's wrong?" Melissa still sounded half asleep, but the concern was there.

Jensen stood up. "I'll tell you later. Sorry; I didn't mean to disturb you." He started for the door, and her voice lassoed him in his tracks.

"_Michael_."

He sighed again and turned around. She looked sleepy but determined. "Just a minute," he told her. By the time he returned shortly with a large cup of coffee, Melissa had pried herself up as far as sitting with her back against the headboard, and he handed the mug to her, then climbed back in bed himself.

"Mmmm. Thanks." She took her first gulps, and he waited. She always woke up in stages. Silence reigned for a few minutes, but it was a peaceful silence, at least as far as the two of them, both knowing that she had won her point, both knowing that waiting a little would work better. Jensen scooted over closer against her. He would never forget the couple of years of his own making when she hadn't been there in his bed and Cathy hadn't been down the hall. "What's wrong?" she said finally, sounding definitely more alert than previously.

"I got a text overnight. I'm going to have to talk to House this morning instead of tonight, at least for a little while anyway."

"Is he okay?"

He hesitated. "Probably, for the most part. But he needs to talk. I'd told you something else came up last week with him during everything with the trial." He hadn't told her what, but he had needed to apologize for staying over Thursday night. "Now that the verdict is in, that apparently gave him more time to think about the other. It's as big a deal as the trial, to him at least, just less public." He didn't want her to think he was turning their plans haywire just for routine, any-week sessions.

She shook her head. "Does the world ever leave him alone?"

Deep down, Jensen was relieved. She was concerned and sympathetic, not annoyed. "It hasn't too often. Honestly, the man has the worst luck I've ever seen. He _is_ doing better, and he has a good family now, but there's always something, it seems. This blindsided me last week, too. Out of the blue, and of course, it was lousy timing. We should still be able to make the show this afternoon, but I'm afraid this morning is a little up in the air. I really don't think I'd better wait until tonight." True doubly, for Cuddy's sake as well as her husband's.

"So when are you going to talk to him?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to wait for him to call me."

She looked puzzled. "He sent a text overnight that he needs to talk to you urgently but didn't suggest a time?"

"No, he . . . the text was from his wife. She had to give him morphine last night, so it depends on when he gets back on line enough to have a session."

"Oh, I get it. So he had a very bad night with pain as well as mentally chewing on things, and his wife decided this needed to be bumped up." Melissa had observed House's pain for herself last fall when he was at their house.

"Pretty much. She's right, though."

"But what if he doesn't agree with her?"

Jensen grinned. "I don't think he gets a vote on that. Not this morning." He slipped an arm around her. "Besides, you wives have ways of getting what you want." She smiled, and he kissed her. "I'm sorry. Thanks for understanding."

"It's okay, Michael. Just talk to me, at least as much as you can. But since I'm awake now anyway. . ." Things were just heating up when they heard Cathy's bedroom door open, followed by the closing of the bathroom door a minute later. Their daughter often went through doors with extra emphasis, not meaning to slam them, just moving vigorously. They broke apart, laughing.

(H/C)

About mid morning, Cuddy entered the bedroom. House was asleep in almost the middle of the bed; she had gently worked him over once she got up for good and left the room. Belle had joined him, curled up in the small of his back, and she blinked golden eyes at Cuddy.

Cuddy sat down on her side of the bed, facing him. "Greg?" She put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

It took him a minute to react. "Mmmfff."

"Come on, Greg. Wake up."

"Greg House, July 19th. I'm in Princeton. Patrick Chandler is in jail," he recited, but his eyes hadn't opened. She took the cup of coffee she held and waved it under his nose until his nostrils flared and he twitched. Slowly the lids pried apart.

"How are you feeling?" She didn't offer the cup of coffee immediately, letting him carefully work himself up to a sitting position.

He gave the expected answer. "Fine." She studied his eyes. They looked closer to normal than they had last night, if still lacking his usual piercing acuity, and the pupils were reassuringly symmetric. On the other hand, the extreme care with which he moved to sit up told its own tale. He made it at last, and she handed him the coffee. In the next moment, he flinched away in anticipation as she picked up the penlight. "Come on, Lisa. I'm _fine_."

"So hold still for a second and prove it. That's a lot faster than arguing." She flashed the light in his eyes. Both pupils reactive and less sluggish now. Satisfied, she put the light back on the nightstand, then walked around the bed, switching sides for a closer look at the gash on his temple. Her emergency handiwork from the middle of the night was holding, but she wanted Taub's assessment on that. He was the plastic surgeon, after all. Finally, she reached down for his leg. Belle studied her. "Don't even think about it, sister."

House snickered. "Attack cat on duty." He took another gulp of coffee, enjoying the feel of her hands. She always had a magic touch on massages. His head felt okay this morning, but his leg was giving him hell already.

"I was just about to make pancakes." That would give him time to get up.

He looked over at the clock. "I need to call the. . ."

"Your patient is stable, no better, no worse, and your team has instructions not to answer phone calls from you until we show up in person."

"Sneaky. Well, we'd better get busy on those pancakes and head in, then."

"After you talk to Jensen."

His face hardened. "You know, promises extracted under influence of drugs don't count. Anyway, he's probably tied up with his family today. We had already agreed on tonight."

"No, he'll be expecting you. I sent him a text last night and told him you'd be calling this morning."

His eyes were colder now. "And told him about the nightmare?"

"As much as I knew about it, yes. And that you dove off the bed at the end and came close to really hurting yourself. I told him the time was up in the air, but if you don't call him this morning, he's liable to track you down himself." She felt the stubbornness strengthen. He didn't like having bridges burned for him. "I thought we had a better chance of him being available if I gave him a heads-up. That's better than just interrupting him at random with his family."

"Or I could have just talked to him tonight, like I had already agreed to do."

She sighed. "You scared the hell out of me last night, Greg. Humor me."

He looked at her, gauging. "How much sleep did you get?"

"I got several naps, just in shorter stretches while I kept an eye on you."

"I am _fine_. Physically, anyway."

"So you'll admit that you aren't fine emotionally?"

That shot went home, and he immediately deflected. "You know, I've never understood that phrase. Technically, you'd think that scaring the hell out of somebody would be a _good_ thing."

"Greg, please. Give him a call. At least tell him about the dream."

"Oh, he'll have a field day with it, I'm sure. Shrinks love dreams. They spin them out into all sorts of things." She was chewing her lower lip again, he noted. "Okay, I'll make a deal. I'll call Jensen if you call Patterson."

"She's in the office for the day with appointments. Jensen is on vacation and expecting you."

"And I have actually interrupted Jensen in the office a few times, and none of the patients in the waiting room died for a few minutes' delay. You ought to give her your version. If I have to get last night analyzed, so do you. Fair's fair."

She capitulated. If it would make him cooperate, it was worth it. "All right, I'll call. We do need breakfast first, though, or I guess it's brunch now."

"Go ahead. I'll be there in a minute."

She knew he didn't like an audience getting up, not even normally, and today would be worse. She would, though, keep both ears peeled. She stood up. "See you in a few minutes."

Once alone, House's first move, of course, was to try calling his team. Sure enough, they didn't pick up, not even to threatening messages. He finally stood up, annoyed by Belle's concerned supervision of the process, and limped into their bathroom. After he had peed, he stood at the mirror and inspected the cut on his temple. He was surprised; it looked worse than he had expected, not just a little scratch blown out of proportion by her anxiety, and he was sure it must have bled like a stuck pig last night. Feeling guilty, he fished out his morning meds, added a Flexeril on second thought, and limped toward the kitchen. He could still feel the last vestiges of the morphine in his mind, but it was clearing slowly, at least.

Cuddy knew better than to talk about last night over brunch, and they ate mostly in silence, just with a few comments on the girls. Finally, they finished, and she pulled out her cell phone and looked pointedly at him, waiting.

"The duel of the cell phones. Who's the faster draw? The contestants face each other, eyes locked, fingers twitching."

"Come on, Greg."

"You first. I'm sort of scheduled, after all. You might have to wait a little."

She couldn't argue with that logic. She called the office, asked the secretary if Dr. Patterson could talk to her for a few minutes about something that had come up, thanked the woman, and hung up. "She actually had a cancellation this morning. She should be out of her current appointment in about 10 minutes, and she'll have her call me. Your turn."

With a sigh, he hit the number for the team, who didn't answer. "Hi, got a minute? Okay. I understand." He hung up. "He's busy."

"Nice try, Greg."

"I'm losing my touch. You used to be easier to trick." He stood up and actually hit speed dial three that time. Jensen answered on the first ring, sounding concerned himself. Slowly, House limped down the hall toward the bedroom, leaving Cuddy in the kitchen to wait for her call.


	35. Chapter 35

House closed the bedroom door firmly and heard a few seconds later the study door close on Jensen's end. "So," he said, "now that we're alone in the shrink version of the principal's office, let me have it. It's not like I've got any choice apparently, not after she texted you."

Jensen didn't ask if he was all right. Of course, the psychiatrist also knew what the answer would be if he did. He'd have to trust Cuddy on the physical followup, and the fact that she hadn't hauled House down to the hospital initially last night or this morning before enforcing a session was significant. She thought that, while he might be somewhat battered, the emotional need was more urgent than the physical, but she would never let the physical go unverified. House no doubt was in for a checkup as soon as he got to work, which would only annoy him further. Right now, with him annoyed and defensive already at the start, wasn't the time for Jensen to remind him of that. "You do have a choice," the psychiatrist said. "But this morning, you would be wiser not to take it. It _is_ your decision, though."

"Yeah, and worry her even more. What kind of a choice is that?"

"A bad one. But it's still a choice."

House sighed. He had really expected Jensen to be all over having this conversation now as much as Cuddy was, pushing him. Instead, the door to the shrink principal's office remained open, the option of hanging up there, but he knew Cuddy would be even worse to deal with. Unless he lied to her. He couldn't really lie about having had an entire session, though. She'd sense it if he only spent the next hour on the bed scratching Belle's ears. Besides, she was holding up her end of the bargain and talking to Patterson. "Just a minute." He limped to the bed and hauled himself up onto it, his legs stretched out. The right one was announcing in no uncertain terms that it protested its treatment last night. He finally achieved as comfortable a position as possible. He looked at the nightstand, recreating the process of the fall last night, and reached up to touch the bandage before putting the cell phone back up to his ear. "Okay, I'm here."

Jensen had stayed quiet throughout that break, but it had been easy enough to reconstruct House's actions. In fact, the small sound effects as he got his leg into position gave a lot better idea of how he was feeling than mere words would have. "Dr. Cuddy said in her text that you had an especially bad nightmare last night. Why don't you start out telling me what it was about?"

"Lisa is all on edge since the President. You know that. Yes, I did have a nightmare, but I'm sure she was overreacting."

"Which part is exaggerated, then? That it was a very bad one? That you jumped off the bed at the end of it and hurt yourself? Those aren't true?"

House shifted uneasily and then caught his breath for a moment as his leg yelped. Belle, still on the bed, gave a questioning trill and pressed up close against him. "I didn't hurt myself much," he said after he could speak again. Jensen didn't reply, but the dubious silence was audible. "What aren't you doing right now?" House asked, trying to change the subject.

"This morning was pretty open ended anyway. We're going to see Into the Woods this afternoon."

"So they don't mind you playing hookey? Wait a minute; I guess technically you're playing workey when you _should_ be playing hookey. What about your wife?"

"She understands. She knows something else big has come up, not that I told her the specific details of what. But she realizes I'm not just making anything and everything at work a priority like before."

"It's not that big," House protested, knowing that it was.

"So what was the nightmare?" Jensen asked, circling back around like a sheepdog to nudge House in the right direction.

House yielded grudgingly. He wasn't going to get out of this, not after Cuddy's text. At least Jensen wasn't freaking out on him, too. He launched into a blow-by-blow account of his dream, fighting to keep the terror of it at bay again. He was glad of the cat's purring presence.

"_Interesting,_" Jensen said once he'd finished.

"Somehow I knew you'd say that. I was just telling her a while ago, shrinks _love_ dreams."

"Yes, we do, because usually they are a window to the subconscious and have all sorts of things in them to analyze. But more often, your dreams have been purely memories, reliving the moment as you did then, and the analysis for most of them is just that you had a traumatic childhood. This one isn't simply reliving actual events."

"It _was_ a memory," House corrected. "That episode did happen." He shuddered, remembering the grip of the glue.

"It was an _edited_ memory. There were things added in with red pen that weren't there in the original version, and those are the things that give the most insight. The pure past was horrible, but changing your view of it is significant. It's progress, actually."

"Progress? You ought to tell that to Lisa. She somehow missed that this is all _good_."

"It's not _all_ good, but it is progress. I doubt she'd be ready to see it that way, though. First of all, something you didn't mention. Did John have his awards ripped out of his uniform."

House tilted his head, remembering. "Yes, he did. I hadn't even noticed that."

"His authority, which is what his uniform represents, isn't complete anymore, even in reliving the past. There's also the fact that you were correcting him while pinned down. You were arguing with him. Again, that's an editor's revision. I'm sure you didn't argue that day except maybe to plead with him."

House shook his head before he remembered Jensen couldn't see him. "I never pleaded with him. Not after the very first few times. It just made everything worse; that was weakness."

"So you didn't tell him to his face that day that he was wrong?"

"No."

"This _is_ progress. In fact, I think that one day soon, you'll manage to have a dream about John in which he's not in uniform at all. Then there's the fact that you literally tried to escape at the end. The results of that were bad, but the effort was good. You never tried to escape physically from him back in your childhood during an episode, because again, it made things worse."

"I _did_ try to get away once," House reminded him. "When I asked Thornton for help, for all the good that did."

Jensen had been hoping that House would be the one to bring up his parents' presence in this dream analysis. "Getting down to Thornton, he was there just briefly, not quite in the room, and then left. He didn't see everything that happened in the dream, did he?"

House hesitated. "No, he didn't," he admitted grudgingly.

"Exactly. By the way, what did Lucas' background check turn up on him?" Jensen deliberately put off Blythe a little longer. There was also, of course, the other thing that Cuddy had mentioned, whatever it might be, but Jensen had no intentions of probing into that today unless House himself introduced it. If House had said it was too much to face at the same time as the other, not just evading but prioritizing while admitting an issue, he was right. Things with his parents needed to be worked through first.

House launched into a recap of Thornton's life. "What surprised you about that?" Jensen asked once he'd finished.

"I. . . there wasn't anything outstanding there, like crimes or such."

"You were specifically looking for negatives."

"The man wants to get into a relationship with my daughters," House reminded him. "I'm _entitled_ to check for skeletons in his closet."

"Absolutely. I think getting the background check was a great idea, actually, even though it doesn't replace emotional closure. Looking for factual details is valid, both from the girls' point of view and from your own. You just used the phrase skeletons in the closet. But closets don't only contain skeletons; they can hold a lot else. What _non_ skeletons in the closet surprised you?" Jensen was pushing him a little here, but he was about to be pushing him more when they got to Blythe. House really did need to at least _start_ thinking about his father as a person, not as a figure of abandonment. That process was already beginning, but he was resisting it, understandably.

House shifted uneasily and then winced. Belle had moved over to drape herself across his thigh, a purring heating pad, but his leg still didn't like sudden movements. "He didn't kill anybody," he said finally. "Or at least didn't keep notches on his gun if he did. That's not what I'd expect from a career Marine."

"Actually, I've known several military patients over the years, including career officers. I do a lot of work with PTSD, you know. So I've talked to people in depth specifically about their service experiences. Guess how many of those kept notches on their gun?" House was silent. "_None_ of them, Dr. House. Not one. Actually, it's quite traumatic for them to remember killing people in war. Many of them even have their own nightmares about killing the _enemy_. It's not just the deaths of friends that chew at them, although those are often worse, since they knew those people and sometimes even held them as they died. They do regret killing the enemy, even when they had to in direct self defense. It wasn't something pleasant that they got a thrill out of. It's not something they like repeating, and they don't go around talking about it. From your description of him, John was very much the _exception_ to the rule."

House was stunned. "_None_ of them?"

"None of them. But you don't have to take my word for it. Do some research yourself over the internet. There is lots of data out there, lots of case studies. It is _extremely_ odd for soldiers to enjoy killing. 99% of military people are not sadistic. John was the exception. Actually, something I've wondered about before. How do you know what his total of notches on his gun was?"

"Because he _told_ me," House emphasized. "Over and over, and growing through the years every time he went off somewhere else."

"Exactly. Never occurred to you since that he was probably lying to you just to watch the effect?"

House straightened up. That whole suggestion was so new that it floored him. No, he had _never_ questioned John's statements of his military total, and why on earth hadn't he? He questioned _everything_. "No," he said softly.

"Everybody lies," Jensen reminded him. "Not that that's a point in John's favor, because lying about killing people just to terrorize your child more effectively is unforgivable. But you ought to realize, dealing with other people you run into in life, that this is not the classic definition of a soldier. Every one I've encountered or ever read about would be _appalled_ at John and would consider him an offense to the uniform. Take the jury who just heard all this evidence and then unanimously convicted Patrick. Out of 12 random people, I would be surprised if there wasn't at least one of those who served in the past. Very good chance statistically. But none of them were sitting there nodding in approval while you were testifying about John, and obviously, none of them thought Patrick was just toughening Christopher up and trying to make a man out of him."

House considered and then predictably jumped tracks. "I was also a little surprised at his childhood. It sounds like he was close to his father. Also sounds like his uncle was a first-class jerk, and he at least stood up to that, but he did apparently like his father, and he sounds like a neat guy. The father, I mean. So Thornton . . ."

"He had at least some idea what a father _should_ be," Jensen filled in after House had trailed off.

"Yeah. And even knowing that, he _laughed_ at me when I asked him for help, and he walked away."

"Yes, he did. He didn't realize what you were saying."

"He _should_ have," House insisted. "Even if he wasn't there all the time, he ought to have seen it."

"I think he agrees with you on that. He'd probably give anything to undo it, but he realizes even just having found this out that you can't undo the past. Contrast to your mother. Do you remember her initial reaction when James told her?" Slowly, carefully, Jensen edged the subject back around. House was hitting the limit on new ways to think of Thornton anyway. That would have to be a gradual process, like slowly exercising a long unused muscle.

House flinched, hurting his leg again. "Not like I could forget that. She nearly drove me nuts wanting to apologize over and over again, like she could just _fix_ things."

"Right. She can't just fix things. It was very hard for her to get past that initial impulse of just undoing things into the extended process of therapy herself and of rebuilding a relationship with you, although she's been working on both of those for two years now, and there is progress. Imperfect progress, of course, but at least progress. But think back to that first meeting at your apartment after James had told her." This was pushing it into dangerous territory, Jensen knew. House had gone into a flashback there and simply bolted; he didn't even remember the ending of that encounter. "Think about as much as you remember her saying. What was it?"

"I'm sorry, like a broken record." House was sounding more annoyed now. "You _know_ that."

"Yes, I remember. But what was it she apologizing for?"

"For missing . . ." House broke off.

"Yes. For missing everything. The whole abuse. Really, your subconscious has an interesting flavor, Dr. House. Knitting is an intriguing metaphor. Did you notice what exactly she was knitting?"

"I'm not sure. I was kind of otherwise occupied at the time." His voice had a definite edge on it now.

"I just wondered, because the most obvious suggestion would have been something for you. A sweater or such. To sit there doing something superficially for you but not noticing the larger picture."

"So what are you saying? That I need to grab her and shake her until she realizes what was going on?"

"Not at all. Actually, at this point, she _does_ realize what was going on, and she understands her role in it, to the best of her ability, anyway. Her insight and intelligence will never match yours on this or anything else. But think back to reading her therapy notes. Over and over again, the major issue, the _continuing_ issue in those, the one thing mentioned far more often than anything else, is her guilt for missing it all. According to her own psychiatrist, she's not trying to deny her share or blind to it now."

House thought back to the therapy notes, which he had read last fall right after the Patrick episode kicked off. Jensen was right; it was all over them, though that point hadn't registered at the time.

"What you need to do is deal with _your_ feelings about what happened, and don't make the mistake of confusing that with the other person's perceptions or response. Dealing with what she did is _her_ issue for therapy. Those were her mistakes. Dealing with how they impacted you and how you feel about it is _your_ share, and those aren't the same thing. You can even deal with your feelings when there is no recognition or response from the other person at all for their actions, as, for instance, you are doing progressively with John. But that's what you need to do, address your feelings here. Admit the anger and face it, not to rub her face in it, but to process it for yourself."

House's breathing had picked up some. "I'm . . . I didn't think I _was_ angry at her."

"And tell me, logically, how that makes sense? She was sitting in your dream knitting while you were being tortured physically and emotionally in the same room. You don't have _any_ feelings toward her about that?" House was silent for a minute. "John warped your thinking here, Dr. House. It wasn't your responsibility to protect her, so you don't need to protect her from your feelings about what happened, either. In fact, that's another progress point imbedded in that dream. John didn't invoke the threat to her. He simply said nobody would ever notice. That's very significant, because as your subconscious was editing things in, you didn't put the threat there. In fact, you were specifically trying to appeal to her for help, something you never would have done due to that threat. She simply didn't notice, due to her own actions, not because you didn't tell her. It's closer to seeing things like they really were during your childhood."

House reached up to touch the bandage on the side of his head. He was literally starting to develop a headache, whether physically or emotionally, he didn't know. "Are you okay?" Jensen asked.

He started to say fine, then changed course. "My head is hurting a little."

"Since last night or just now? Was it hurting earlier this morning?"

"No," House admitted. "I did whack it on the nightstand, though. Actually, I'm surprised looking at it in the mirror this morning. I figured Lisa was overreacting last night, but it's not just a scratch." He shivered. "I thought _she_ was bleeding at first, before I realized I was. She had blood on her hands. I thought I'd hurt her."

"You aren't going to hurt her - intentionally, anyway. But do realize that especially right now, this close to her own breakdown, you are taking the sleeping pill for both of you in effect. Whatever you do or don't take each night, that's the verdict for _her_ night's sleep as well as yours, and any adjustments need to be made gradually and not under stress."

House squirmed. "Yeah, I know. It was stupid." He paused, waiting for the usual correction. "You aren't going to tell me it wasn't stupid?"

"No," Jensen said firmly. "You win; I'll admit the description in this case. It _was_ stupid."

"Gee, thanks." House sighed. "I'm not sure what to do here."

"Again, that's progress. Things take time, Dr. House. Feelings take time, especially long-buried ones, and you've never really dealt with how you feel about your father or your mother."

"That sadistic bastard wasn't my father," House corrected.

"I wasn't referring to John. Tell me, since your mother discovered you knew your paternity, have you ever talked to her about Thornton?"

"No. She's tried to bring it up several times, and I shot the topic down. I did tell her Saturday night not to talk to him in case he calls for details on the girls. She hadn't heard from him, though." House was still amazed at that. "Not even in the last week since he knew about them. He could have had a full report, her version of, anyway. She never would have suspected. It would have been easy for him."

"Yes, it would have," Jensen agreed. "Maybe sometime, you can talk to her about Thornton, but you don't have to push that. It's okay to take time on it. And at some point, maybe you can admit to her that you're angry she missed everything, as one part of your own processing of it, although that wouldn't be close to the whole processing, just one small piece. She already _knows_ she missed everything, Dr. House. That would make it easier. She'd already be expecting what you just haven't acknowledged. But again, don't confuse other people's actions or responses with your feelings. Those are separate. Their actions - or non actions - are _their_ responsibility and their burden to face. You just need to work through for yourself how you feel about the results of those actions on you. But you _are_ making progress. Last night was actually progress in many ways, even while traumatic in others. I think we ought to wrap it up now, but please, Dr. House, work on processing things while you're awake. Sleep at night."

House looked at his watch. "I need to get to the hospital anyway. I've got a patient, and she threatened the team and cut me out of communication until I physically get there."

Jensen laughed. "You have quite a wife, Dr. House."

"I know. How are the scratches?" He looked down at Belle.

"They're healing up nicely. No problems."

"Good. She's actually thought once or twice about going after Lisa since then."

"Now _that_ would be a contest to see. My money would be on Dr. Cuddy, though."

"Mine, too."

"Are you feeling better?" Jensen didn't specify physically or mentally.

"Yeah. Go on; you've got better things to do than talking to me. Don't want to miss the show."

"We're doing okay on time. Tomorrow, we're taking Cathy to New York City to see a few things, then going to a piano concert at Carnegie Hall. She's already thrilled about that."

"When is her birthday?" House asked suddenly.

"September 16th." Jensen didn't ask why. "She'll be 10."

"Well, better getting rolling. Talk to you later." House paused. "Hopefully not before Friday, though."

"If you need to, we'll slot it in somewhere, but we'll plan on Friday. Good bye, Dr. House."

Jensen hung up, and House sat on the bed for a good five minutes more just scratching Belle's ears. Finally, he started the laborious process of prying himself back to his feet.


	36. Chapter 36

A/N: Here we arrive at the end of Verdict. Hope you've enjoyed this rollercoaster. The next story is a one shot that is something completely different and pure fun, a 1-day episode to give us a breather. It should be up in probably a week or so. After that, we will have a gap until the next full-length story. I cannot tell you how long the gap will be. My muse isn't done with it yet and doesn't give me estimates, and there are things going on in RL, too. But it will come. That next full-length story will be back to working problems out and will have more of House/Cuddy/girls, Jensen, Thornton, as well as returning, though always secondarily, to Wilson and Sandra and their new one.

Thanks for reading Verdict.

(H/C)

It was 12:30 by the time House and Cuddy arrived at Diagnostics. They did make a joint arrival at Diagnostics, to House's annoyed disappointment. Cuddy was stuck to him like glue clear across the lobby, not even glancing toward her office, and she followed him into the elevator. He had hoped to lose her in administrative details, especially given her uncharacteristic late arrival, but the receptionist's calls fell on deaf ears. She stayed with him as they exited at four, not going ahead but determinedly at his side and refusing to be moved.

House entered the conference room. "Good morning. You're all fired. But first, how's the patient?"

The team had been deep in differential and were startled at his entrance. "We've ruled out . . ." Foreman broke off as he turned around enough from the whiteboard to see his boss. "What the hell happened to you?" Cuddy had offered no explanation earlier, and Taub, who had taken the call, hadn't asked for one, simply reported the rules of engagement for the morning to the others.

"Odd," House replied. "Have you been losing trains of thought partway often lately? Better get checked out; as a neurologist, you know that. Once again, how's the patient?"

Cuddy took a half step forward and held out her hand, silencing the team's next question or reply, whichever it would have been. "Here is your _first_ patient of the day, and he gets at least a brief check before any of you say one word on the other patient." House's eyes went immediately to the whiteboard, and she marched over and turned it around. "He fell last night and clipped his head on a piece of furniture on the way down. I don't think he has a concussion, but I'd appreciate a second opinion on that and the cut."

"Give me an update now, or you're fired," House insisted, hiding his relief that Cuddy hadn't mentioned all the details of that fall to the team.

"You already fired us a minute ago," Kutner pointed out.

"I would have _unfired_ you if you'd given me an update. The offer is still open, but the clock is ticking."

Cuddy came back over to him and pushed him down gently into a chair. "You are _not_ getting out of this, Greg. It's a perfectly reasonable precaution with your history of multiple serious head injuries already. The best way to get me off on my own work day and to get down to your patient as soon as possible is to cooperate for a minute."

The team was already closing in with clinical interest, Foreman the neurologist, Taub the plastic surgeon, and Kutner, refusing to be left out of this even if his specialty wasn't involved. Unless House had hurt his leg much, of course, but getting him to submit to an examination of his leg would be even harder than his head. Since Cuddy hadn't mentioned his leg and he had walked in here, they would have to trust that the leg was no more than strained.

Foreman whipped out his penlight and started studying House's eyes as Taub gently pulled off the bandage. "You did a good job on it," Taub commented, studying the gash.

"Haven't you ever heard the saying that anything worth doing is worth doing well?" House replied. Cuddy sighed. Foreman put away the penlight and reached around himself to the cut, probing the contused area around it, obviously checking extent of that versus the location of the old bus wreck fracture. Taub headed over to the cabinet to get the first aid kit.

"Any dizziness? Nausea? Vomiting?"

"No, no, and no. Are we done yet, Mother?"

"What about headache?"

"Not until I started talking to you." His mild one by the end of the session with Jensen had gone away fairly quickly, and much as he hated to admit it, House had to face the fact that that one was most likely psychosomatic.

"Well, your eyes look okay." Okay for House, that was. He was obviously on pain medication, even a bit stronger than usual, but that was understandable. His leg had to be giving him hell today.

"Did you hear that, Cuddy? I'm _fine._" Kutner, hovering nearly as anxiously as Cuddy, let out a soft sigh of relief simultaneously with her.

Taub returned with the kit and set it down on the table, snapping it open. "I think we can do this without stitches, although it's borderline. But I can get it a little better than it was." Cuddy was sure he could. She had still been practically shaking herself in the shock of everything. House held relatively still with a martyred look as Taub carefully pulled the gash together and applied a new bandage. Finally, the plastic surgeon stepped back.

House looked at Cuddy pointedly. "Okay," she said. "Call me if you start feeling off. And that applies to all of you."

House stood up, trying to hide the fact that it took him longer than usual. "You want to hear from _all_ of them if any of them start feeling off? That seems a little extreme."

"Shut up," Cuddy said pleasantly. She touched his arm gently. "See you at 5:00." She had refused to let him drive in, so they were both in her car. With a brisk, administrative stride, she was out of the conference room, heading to her own postponed and now compressed day, as House turned the whiteboard around.

"Progress report. Go."

"Are we still fired or are we unfired?" Kutner asked, trying to get the situation straight first.

House smiled at him. Not a friendly smile. "That depends on how fast we solve this case."

The team dove into the differential.

(H/C)

Lucas spent the morning in his car in the parking lot at the Ramada. He was in a position to see Thornton's rental car but not too close. He had no intentions of following the other man, which he knew would set off Thornton's spidey senses, learned in a far more potentially deadly field than PI work. Still, he wanted to see him leave and see whether it was with or without suitcase.

Would Thornton be leaving Princeton today? He didn't seem the type to hang around in limbo; the PI figured that today, he would either leave to head back home or would march over to PPTH (assuming he didn't have House's unpublished home address, quite likely given House's hostility) to talk to his son about last night. Lucas would have bet money on the former course of action. Thornton in fact had seemed very concerned last night that House _not_ be contacted. That whole encounter also hadn't had any hint in the tones of staging a scene for someone else's benefit. Nope, last night had been purely Thornton's private revenge, not a card to play subsequently with his son. But Lucas needed to be _sure_. Because if Thornton did intend to go to House himself for further conversation and negotiations, Lucas would yield the field to him. This whole thing was, after all, none of Lucas' business.

But if Thornton did _not_ go to find House . . . The older man was clearly interested in his son and regretted his own errors. He had to want to build a relationship now that he knew the truth. He must be leaving it purely as House's choice, probably a wise decision but one which could have extreme and permanent consequences because House was furious at him. Would House eventually come around at least enough to open the lines of communication? Lucas knew that House hated being pushed on anything. However, Lucas also knew that House was missing vital data here and that last night's encounter absolutely did not match House's stubbornly held picture of his father. House would be annoyed at interference, even by Lucas. But House was incapable of ignoring data. If he had it, he _would_ apply it into the picture. Lucas only wished he had video from last night, but the audio itself was priceless. The PI had sat there grinning ear to ear as he listened. He liked House's father's style, and it reminded him irresistibly of the son's. Those two _needed_ to get to know each other. If they could ever wade past misunderstandings and regrets, they would enjoy each other's company immensely.

So Lucas waited. He listened in on the hotel room bug, but Thornton made no phone calls this morning and said nothing. He took a shower and then was using his laptop; Lucas could hear the keys. That laptop had been the most tantalizing thing in the room on Lucas' quick search Sunday evening, but it was passworded, and Lucas didn't take time to probe further than a few obvious possibilities which failed. He hadn't known when Thornton would return, after all. Thornton also listened to more music this morning. He obviously liked piano music, no doubt remembering his own father, House's grandfather.

About 12:30, there was the sound of activity, then the door closing. Lucas sat in the car and waited. About 10 minutes later, Thornton exited with his suitcase, loaded it in the trunk, and drove off. Lucas stayed where he was but switched to the rental car bug. If Thornton was going to PPTH on the way out of Princeton, he would arrive there in under 10 minutes. However, the traffic noises after a few minutes indicated that he was getting on the highway, and even better, Thornton said audibly after a brief period, "City limit. Goodbye, Greg - for now. This isn't over."

Lucas switched the bug off. "Goodbye, Thornton - for now. This isn't over." He turned on the car and headed for PPTH.

(H/C)

The team was deep in differential, House letting them toss it around and watching them brainstorm. He thought he had it now, had pieced it together about five minutes ago, and he was watching them probe for the answer, analyzing their diagnostic progress. Fully immersed in work, he felt in his rightful place again, the horrible last week forgotten.

Until Lucas appeared outside the door. House, standing at the whiteboard but facing the table, saw him first. Lucas stood there and tilted his head inquiringly, asking for a few minutes. He probably had additional details from Ohio or St. Louis. House scowled, and the three younger doctors looked around to see what had his attention suddenly. "It's Addison's disease," House announced, ending the game. "Go. Treat. And test to confirm."

Startled at the abrupt end of the differential, the team looked back and forth from Lucas to House, then came to their feet and exited as Lucas stood aside politely. He entered the conference room once House was alone. "Couple of more details for you, House." He looked curiously at the bandage but earned a few points by not asking.

"I already paid you and paid you well, so anything more is _free_ details," House pointed out.

To his surprise, Lucas didn't wrangle on that. "Yeah, I know. No charge." He walked around the table, getting closer. "First of all, I spent this morning staking out the parking at the Ramada. Thornton left a little while ago with suitcase. He must be heading back to the airport."

House was relieved and tried to cover for it with a sharp tone. "Well, of _course_ he left. He's good at that."

Lucas ignored him. Instead, he held out a small manila envelope. "Here's something else for you that I copied off last night. You'll find it interesting. Also, this is the only copy left in existence, at least the only one I have control over. It's out of my hands now, so I'm done. See you." That quickly, the PI turned around and exited, leaving House holding the sealed envelope. He gave it a few seconds' delay, but that sealed flap was irresistible. Inside was a CD. Blank, unlabeled CD.

House walked to his office and popped it in, putting on the headphones as a precaution against Wilson or early return by the team.

He listened. He listened twice. Three times. His expression was a road map of a journey, first curiosity, then quickly recognition, then a smile in a tug-of-war with absolute amazement, first one side winning, then the other.

The recording ended the third time, and he stopped it and sat at his desk, completely stunned.

Thornton had stepped forward for him. Not as a manipulative tool either, since he had left without making any attempt to tell House about this encounter. He had simply acted out of anger that someone had unjustly attacked his son.

He did regret the past. He had acted decisively where he could in the present.

But he _hadn't_ been there. He had laughed at his 6-year-old son's plea and walked away. Blythe, for all her faults, had at least been there. She had been the one person in his daily home life with _any_ positive associations. To have questioned her then, even aside from John's threat, was unthinkable, because if he hadn't had her at least partially in childhood, he truly had had _nothing_.

But she _had_ failed to see it. As had Thornton. They had both let him down. Even while part of him admired Thornton's manipulative style on the recording with Stevenson, another part had tightened up every time Thornton referred to him by name. It grated. It sounded _wrong_ somehow, claiming an association much closer than the one that existed. It made them sound like family, and biological technicalities aside, they weren't family. Not yet, at least.

House sat there for nearly half an hour, wrestling, debating. Finally, slowly, he pulled out the card from his wallet and opened up his laptop. There was no salutation in what he typed.

_You haven't earned the right to call me Greg._

_Gregory House, MD_

(H/C)

Thomas Thornton sat in the Newark airport, having arrived there a few hours early for security as advised. The rental car was turned in, and his flight should be called soon. He sat lost in thought for most of the wait, reviewing the tumultuous last few weeks, trying to decide on the next course. When would be too soon to push if he didn't hear anything from Greg? Taking the younger granddaughter's birthday as a contact occasion would be a bad idea. Thornton finally decided on Christmas. He would send him a Christmas card to PPTH, just a reminder of his presence and interest. Christmas and his son's birthday were roughly 6 months apart, and for the rest of Greg's life, or at least the rest of Thomas', neither would fail to be acknowledged. He couldn't push him, but he wasn't going to go away. He hoped it wouldn't be that long, though. Greg needed to take the first step, but while Thomas had patience, he also had determination.

He signed onto his laptop for a last check of email before they called boarding in a few minutes. He had checked email so often in the last week that seeing the message actually there, seeing his son's name in the sender line, was almost like an illusion, and he stared at it, afraid to hope it was real. Five seconds. Ten seconds. A full minute. The bolded, unread item in the list was still there. Thornton held his breath as he clicked.

His smile widened as he read the brief message. Of course, the anger and abandonment were clear, but he also read the subtext underneath, the longing for what might have been, almost afraid to hope for what might eventually be. And with this, he had his son's email address, given to him personally, and he could respond to it. Thomas had to force himself not to reply immediately. He would have to be very careful here, would have to go slowly, step by step, nothing abrupt, not too enthusiastic, not building on what wasn't established yet, taking time with it like the Little Prince taming the fox. But the door was open, even if still guarded at the moment. No matter what the exact words of this email, that was the overall message, and he read it clearly. The door was at least a little ways open.

It was a beginning.

With a smile, he closed down his laptop and stood up, heading for the gate.


End file.
